


Five Days in May

by Dangerousnotbroken, KreweOfImp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anonymous Sex, Art by OnceUponADestiel, Bisexual Dean, Cas Is Full of Surprises, Casual Sex, Communication Failure, Dean Doesn't Bottom, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2016, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub Play, First Time Bottom Dean, From Sex to Love, Gay Castiel, Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Light Bondage, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Or Maybe Not So Casual, Spanking, Sub Dean, Switching, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Castiel, Vacation Fling, until he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-22 22:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 128,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8303737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp/pseuds/KreweOfImp
Summary: When Hurricane Abby sprang up out of nowhere, nearly a month out of season, to pummel the tiny island where Castiel’s sister was getting married, his only thought was escaping the reception and his mother Naomi’s criticisms of his “lifestyle choices” to see the fury of mother nature in action.  He didn’t anticipate saving anybody’s life, and certainly not that of the most stunning man he’s ever seen.~*~The unseasonable hurricane wasn’t the only force of nature on the beach that night.  Dean counts himself lucky that the beautiful blue-eyed stranger was there to save his life.  He never could have anticipated that a nameless one-night stand in a tiny storm-tossed shack would change his entire life.





	1. That Night: May 7, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like most great romances, this story came to pass in large part by accident, set in motion by a number of small things that brought to fruition something much greater than either of the participants expected. Back when DCBB signups were first opened, KreweOfImp messaged me, (Dangerous), and mentioned that she'd signed up to write one with no plans on what she was actually going to write. "Should I sign up too?" I wondered. "Should I write a DCBB this year?" That was when, very cautiously, she suggested that if I was game, maybe, just maybe we should consider writing one together. No pressure. But if I was up for it. And we agreed to think about it.
> 
> Less than 24 hours later, I'm sitting at my desk at work and [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuUnApNzIz0) comes on the radio. It's only a few bars in but I've heard this song so many times (because Canada), and it immediately gives me feels. Destiel feels. "So many feels," I tell her, and she goes to check out the song. Cue absolutely absurd headcanoning with a level of detail that frankly just should not exist for something we'e never discussed before this point. I pretty much stopped working altogether while we flailed.
> 
> "I think we just accidentally a whole DCBB," one of us said. I don't even remember who. But that's definitely what happened.
> 
> We were already pretty damn good friends when this whole thing started. We'd have to be to take on a project of this magnitude and expect to work well in tandem. Neither one of us predicted just how well we'd work together though. It was seamless. It was glorious. It flowed so easily, and somehow we worked to the point where this story just grew so organically, people who are familiar with both of our previous works have a hard time telling what parts she wrote and which words are mine. And somehow, we came out the other side not just better friends, but practically one single person. 
> 
> Some time later, well after art claims were completed, we opened our respective emails to discover that our artist was backing out. We were understandably distraught, particularly as this happened almost halfway through the period in which art was supposed to be completed (no shade meant; real life happens, and we wish our original artist nothing but the best). As it turns out, though, maybe everything really does happen for a reason, because we were extraordinarily lucky in the spectacular woman who stepped up as a pinch-hitter. You know her (or maybe you don't, but you certainly should) as [OnceUponADestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jems_of_Grace/pseuds/OnceUponADestiel). We know her as the woman who brought our vision to colorful, sweet, lovely life. We are so grateful to her, and we know all of you will fall as deeply in love with her art as we did.
> 
> As for Imp and I, this entire experience has been amazing for both of us. We'll certainly be working together in future, be it on one-shot sequels or timestamps for this story, unadulterated and unconnected Destiel filth, or perhaps even original fiction. 
> 
> So without further ado, we present for your consideration our contribution to the 2016 DeanCas Big Bang, _**Five Days in May.**_
> 
> (Chapter specific warning tags in the notes at the end of the chapter)

**_Castiel_ **

Castiel definitely should not be on this beach right now. There is no doubt in his mind that it’s a deeply stupid idea. Every rational person on this island is securely barricaded somewhere safe and dry to ride out the worst of the storm but here stands Cas, wind whipping the already haphazard locks on his head into an absolute catastrophe of hair, fully cognizant but apparently uncaring about the danger he’s currently in.

He should be inside. The reception, such as it is, still holds the rest of his family in its thrall, and his presence is technically expected. The whole thing would have gone just as well without him, though. Perhaps better. If Castiel wasn’t here, his mother would be able to focus entirely on Anna and her now-husband, Inais. As it stands she keeps finding opportunities to nag about Castiel’s supposed failings. _When are you going to find a nice girl of your own and settle down? I just want you to be happy._ She’d asked a million times. Somehow she still hasn’t grasped that a girl will never make Castiel happy. Cas will never understand how someone with his mother’s intelligence and education can still believe that being gay is a choice he made, one he can just _un-make_ on a whim. If he’s being honest, Castiel is really out here to escape the next round of questions, but he tells himself repeatedly that it’s all about the hurricane.

He’s never seen a hurricane up close before. There’s video on news reports on an increasingly regular basis, evidence that Mother Nature is not a force to be trifled with, and he’s familiar enough with the stories of people who have seen them that none of the details are any kind of surprise. The wind that buffets him is about as strong as expected, kicking up a flurry of sand and sea spray that give the beach an air of activity on what would otherwise be a quiet evening.

It should be desolate. Castiel shouldn’t be out here but if he is, he should be the only one on hand to witness nature’s anger come to fruition.

He’s not.

Just a little ways down the beach stands a broad-shouldered, bow-legged man in denim and flannel, shoes kicked off to dig his toes into the wet sand. Castiel doesn’t think it’s the best apparel for storm watching, but his own attire is just the remnants of a suit, tie long gone and jacket slung over his shoulder, so it’s not really his place to judge. This man doesn’t seem to realize there’s anyone else on the beach or if he does, he doesn’t care. His attention is intently focused on the choppy surf, and Castiel wonders what he’s out here escaping. Clearly not one of the other weddings the resort is hosting this evening; Cas has never been to any destination weddings other than his half-sister’s this evening, but he’s fairly certain that plaid isn’t the standard dress code. Fashion faux-pas notwithstanding, the stranger is paying a truly unhealthy amount of attention to the sea and none at all to the rest of the storm, and that’s risky business.

Castiel, at least, is paying a bit more attention to his surroundings, so he sees the danger that this stranger does not. Just behind the man, toward the row of palm trees that creak ominously in the wind, a cluster of iron furniture, beach chairs and low tables and umbrellas, is losing its battle with the elements. A few chairs topple and fall to the sand, legs sticking up haphazardly. Some of them bounce and tumble a few dozen feet before coming to rest. The umbrellas, though—Castiel can see the wind tearing at them, and his mouth is open to call out a warning when it occurs to him at the last possible second that he can’t even really hear the rattling the furniture must be making. All sound is lost in the roar of the wind and crashing surf. There’s no way his words will carry to the man’s ears.

He’s springing into action before he really has a chance to contemplate the decision, legs carrying him down the beach with no economy of effort. Running in sand is every bit as hard as he’s been led to believe, but somehow he makes it in time. His diving leap brings him in contact with the stranger just seconds before the thick iron pole of the umbrella sails through the spot the man just occupied. The force of their collision bears them both to the sand with a solid thud that knocks the wind out of them.

“What the fuck?!” The man cries, hands scrambling to push Castiel off of him so he can roll over. Castiel is slow to move, shifting enough to let the man turn and face him.

“The umbrella,” Cas answers vaguely, pointing in the direction of the ruined thing, stuck upside down into the sand now, the ribs bent and snapped, the skin torn in places. “You could have _died,”_ he adds emphatically. It’s not his most eloquent explanation but he can’t bring himself to restate it with greater clarity because he’s lost in a pair of deep green eyes. The man he’s just saved, the one he’s currently pressed embarrassingly close to on the wet sand of this tempest tossed beach, is possibly one of the most attractive men he’s ever laid eyes on.

He’s rendered abruptly insensible in the face of this gorgeous stranger, mouth hanging open and no words offered to explain himself, and he knows he should be doing something but all he can do is stare. The stubble on his jaw gives him a rugged sort of handsomeness that is not what Castiel would ordinarily consider his type, but it remains appealing in a way that he can’t quite explain. There are tiny lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth that say clear as day that he loves to smile, to laugh. Castiel wonders if he could make this man smile, add a few more smile lines to his face. He wonders what it would be like to kiss this man.

“Do you think you could let me up?” the man says, and Castiel stammers out an apology, scrambling backwards on hands and knees until he’s no longer invading the stranger’s personal space. He’s slower to get back on his feet than Castiel expected, surreptitiously adjusting himself in his jeans as he stands.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Cas tells him.

“Neither should you.” The response is immediate and impossible to dispute.

“ _We_ shouldn’t be out here,” Cas concedes. “It is not a safe place to be.” He grabs the man’s hand, suddenly bold, and drags him towards a small shack near the tree line. The man resists only a little, standing firm for half a second before letting himself be hauled along, and they reach the shack quickly. The prayers Castiel didn’t think to offer are nonetheless answered when he finds the door unlocked. He throws it open carelessly and pulls his unwitting companion inside before closing it firmly, latching the deadbolt behind them.

The shack, as it turns out, is a towel storage room. There’s a roll-up half-wall on the beach side, the counter with a tall chair intended to house the attendant who hands the towels to beachgoers on far more temperate days than this. Cas supposes he might have availed himself of the services of this very shack had the weather not turned unseasonably torrid, but that’s not likely to be the case now. A large rack of fluffy white towels takes up the entire back wall, a small radio on a table on the side opposite the door, but other than that the room is basically empty. Empty, that is, except for Castiel and the frazzled man in sopping flannel and denim. Castiel turns to face his companion, finally ready to offer a better explanation for his behaviour, but it doesn’t seem to be necessary.

Castiel must be mistaken. He has to be. The man doesn’t have the look of someone who’s affronted or disgusted. He doesn’t even look mildly annoyed. If Castiel had to guess, and he really does have to guess (because the only other option is to use words to confirm his suspicions outright, and he’s not quite _that_ awkward), he’d say that his companion’s exact attitude toward the situation is a combination of amusement, curiosity, and above all, arousal. There’s definitely a tent in his pants. That part isn’t up for debate. But there’s also a slow smile on his lips and his eyes are dark. It looks every bit like an invitation, and Cas has never wanted to RSVP more in his life.

Castiel crosses the small room purposefully. He’s prepared to stop the second he gets any sign that his attention is unwanted, but the hands that lift from this beautiful stranger’s sides don’t attempt to ward him off. Rather, they draw him in, pressing firmly onto Castiel’s hips the second he’s close enough, and their lips crash together with all the force of the storm that rages outside. He tastes like just a hint of whiskey and he kisses like he wants to devour Castiel.

Cas kinda wants to let him.

There is nothing tentative about it. From the moment their mouths meet, it’s clear they’ve both decided this is going to get messy. The other man moves with certainty, his hands exploring Castiel’s body with desire he makes no attempts to contain. Cas isn’t any more reserved, a low growl escaping his throat as he makes short work of the soaked flannel clinging to his companion’s back, pushing it to the floor carelessly. The muscles that move beneath his shirt are firm and well-toned. It’s a strong body, one used to hard work and effort, but he also yields so beautifully to Castiel’s touches. They move together with such ease for two people who haven’t even exchanged names, Castiel almost can’t believe it even as the situation unfolds before him.

Emboldened by this beautiful stranger’s enthusiasm, Castiel moves to work open the fastenings on his jeans. No warning hands attempt to stop him, so as soon as the button and zipper are free, he slips his hand inside and works his palm over the hard length of his partner’s cock, thoroughly enjoying the heady moan that fills the air at this new point of contact. He rolls his hips up to meet Castiel’s touch, silently urging him not to stop, not to slow down. Castiel obliges, focusing all his attention on wrapping his fingers around that smooth, hard shaft, coaxing sweet sounds out into the night.

“Fuck,” the green eyed stranger groans, dropping his head to Cas’s shoulder. His hands work under the hem of Cas’s shirt to press the pads of his thumbs to Cas’s nipples, rolling and teasing. His breath is already ragged. “Wanna fuck you,” he murmurs, pressing hot kisses to Castiel’s throat like he’s imploring him to accept the request. There’s no chance of Castiel declining. Quite honestly, he’s much more inclined to top, but he’s not opposed to switching roles and he certainly finds pleasure in bottoming. Frankly, as long as this evening ends with the two of them naked and sweaty and sated at each other’s hands, Cas doesn’t especially care who fucks who. They could trade messy blowjobs before collapsing onto a heap of these towels and he’d still be happy as long as he gets to see this man naked in the throes of passion.

“Got protection?” Castiel finds the presence of mind to ask. This entire evening has been uncharacteristically impulsive (at least from Castiel’s side of things) but he’s not going to forget himself badly enough to make rash and dangerous choices.

“In my wallet,” the stranger offers.

“That’s a terrible place to keep condoms,” Castiel rebukes without any heat in his voice.

“Yeah, well,” the guy says dismissively, leaning in to kiss Castiel again. He has lost patience with the progression towards nudity, apparently, and starts to work on the buttons of Cas’s shirt. “I don’t normally carry ‘em there. But you should be glad I decided to while I’m here, or this thing wouldn’t be happening. You _do_ want this thing to happen, right?”

“Fuck, yes,” Castiel breathes, never having been more certain of anything in his whole life.

“Okay, good,” the stranger replies with no small measure of relief. “Because, I mean, I totally want this. Want you. But we don’t have to. It’s not, I mean, we could just ride out the storm in here. Nothing has to—“

Castiel silences the rest of his rambling by kissing the breath right out of him, surging forward with his hand still wrapped around the man’s dick to claim his lips and render them useless for speech. When he breaks away for air, the man is visibly reeling, eyes wide and lips parted in a pleasant sort of shock. He makes no attempt to pick up where he left off; Castiel’s honestly not sure he even remembers he was speaking. It’s not until Cas starts to push his jeans towards the floor with his free hand that he shakes himself out of the apparent trance and catches up, hands going to the waistband of Cas’s pants.

Castiel is loathe to let go of his hold on his companion’s cock, but it’s worth it in order to get this beautiful man naked. He gives it a few more firm strokes, allowing himself a coy smile at the delicious noise he gets in reply, then slides his hand free to push his own pants to the ground. Cas steps out of slacks and boxer shorts alike, letting his cock spring free, and kicks his pants to the side with a bare foot. He spares only a brief thought for the fact that he has no idea where he left his shoes when he came out to watch the storm, and then tosses his shirt into the pile.

His companion, meanwhile, just stands there staring at his newly revealed nudity like he’s just been handed a precious gift and has no idea how to express proper gratitude. Castiel gives him a wry smile, then turns towards the rack of towels and grabs a stack, unfolding them and laying them on the concrete floor in a makeshift bed. It won’t be comfortable, not really, but it will be infinitely preferable to fucking on the unpadded stone. His companion watches in silence, either admiring Cas’s body or too confused to act.

“Are you coming?” Castiel teases, arms crossed over his chest. The green-eyed stranger snaps out of his trance, shucking the last of his clothing onto the pile of Cas’s own garments, then digging through the clothes until he comes up with his wallet. He fishes out a single condom in a foil package. It doesn’t look like it’s been in there long, no mangled edges to the packaging, and Cas supposes that’ll be sufficient.

“They’re lubricated,” the man offers almost apologetically. “But I don’t have any lube outside of that.” He guides Castiel to the floor, hands stroking over his thighs as he speaks.

“Fuck,” Cas groans. “I don’t even care. It’ll do.” The beautiful stranger spits on his own fingers, offering a grimace of apology for the somewhat uncivilized approach. Castiel grins back. It’ll burn, and it’s been a while since Cas bottomed so he’ll feel it even more, but if this perfect specimen wants to put his dick in Cas’s ass, this is not going to be the thing that stands in the way of that happening. He sighs as he feels the first press of a finger against his hole, gentle teasing touches that are nothing but pleasure, coaxing him to relax and grant entrance.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises, and Cas nods. The tip of his finger pushes in, just enough pressure to work past the tight ring of muscle, and true to his word, he moves slowly. The tiniest of motions, the slowest progression. It feels like forever before he decides Cas is relaxed enough for more, sinking the length of his finger in, and still he moves at a crawl. Cas should be grateful for it, he knows. No good can come of rushing this. But all he can think about is how delicious it’s going to feel having this gorgeous man sink his cock into Cas’s tight ass and how much he wants to ride out the storm being ridden into the ground.

An actual eternity later, when Cas is writhing on the bed of towels and giving up breathy, desperate little whimpers with each touch, the man finally decides it’s sufficient and pulls back, retrieving the condom from the floor beside Cas’s hips and rolling the slick thing onto his cock. He gives himself a few strokes for good measure, then catches Cas’s eye in silent question. Cas nods, eyes lusty and dark, and breathes out an emphatic _yeah_ in case the non-verbal signal wasn’t quite enough encouragement. His partner takes his meaning, moving forward to nudge the slick head of his cock against Cas’s hole, and slowly pushes in.

The first touch feels almost cool, the lube not having had enough time to warm up to body temperature yet, but its slickness eases the friction enough that although Castiel is well aware of the burn, his main focus is on the overwhelming pleasure. He feels so _full_ , stretched open around this thick cock, that he’ll never be able to bring himself to begrudge the insufficient lube. It’s more discomfort than pain, anyway, and as soon as the man above him starts to move, all thoughts of that fall away.

Even now he moves slowly, careful not to go too hard or too fast. He props his arms on either side of them as he leans over Cas, lips parted in silent pleasure until Cas leans up to pull him into a kiss. It barely qualifies, the way their jaws hang open in awe. Before long they’re really just moaning into each other’s mouths, hot breath between them nearly matching the humidity of the storm that still dominates the world outside the shack. Castiel rolls his hips up to take him deeper and slides a hand between them to take his own cock in hand.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Castiel’s nameless partner murmurs. He should ask the man’s name, really, but they’ve gone this far without proper introduction and it feels somewhat unnecessary to interrupt the flow of the moment for conversation. And really, asking his partner’s name so he knows what to scream when he comes is possible the most cliché thing a person could do. He’d never be able to bring himself to do it with a straight face, so instead he keeps it anonymous, just a random encounter in the heart of a storm.

“Yeah,” Cas breathes, “just like that!” It won’t be long before he’s coming at this rate. The thick cock filling him up provides such beautiful friction that there’s no way he’ll hang on for a lengthy session, especially since the beautiful man that’s doing the fucking is like something out of a wet dream, so insanely gorgeous that Cas isn’t sure he didn’t just dream him up. It’s basically a real life fantasy, this thing they’re doing. He’ll never be able to pretend it’s not the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him. Of course he’s going to come hard and fast.

His companion seems to feel the same way. His breath comes in harsh gasps, face a mix of desire and determination as he fucks into Castiel. He talks the whole way through, his deep and raspy voice uttering praise and filthy compliments. “You feel so damn good,” he says, and Castiel knows he means it because he whispers it almost reverently into the skin of his throat. “I wanna see what you look like when you come,” he demands, his tone stating clearly to Castiel’s ears that there is nothing on heaven or earth that would make him happier. “You’re so fuckin’ sexy,” he groans, and Castiel knows it to be true because you can’t fake that kind of desire.

Castiel isn’t surprised that he comes first. One minute they’re rolling together like the waves on the shore outside, the next he’s gone rigid, crying out wordlessly as he spills over his fist and onto his belly. His companion slows his thrusts, the tenderness in his movements unexpected in an encounter like this.

“Don’t,” Castiel tells him. “Keep going. I want it.” He’s surprised at how breathy he sounds, but the words have the desired effect, and the previous pace is picked back up. Gentle rolling thrusts give way to hard, sharp motions, nearly overwhelming now that Castiel is fucked out and sensitive but still so, so good because he can tell how much pleasure his partner takes in it. Cas clings to him, rocking his hips up to meet each thrust. It’s clear on the other man’s face that he’s nearing the edge and Castiel wants to see him get there. He wraps his legs around the hips that drive into him so he can pull them closer together, deepening the intensity as much as he’s able.

Castiel gets his wish. Not too long after, his companion groans long and low, his hips stuttering and his eyes slipping closed. A few more thrusts and his stamina gives out. He pulls out carefully, discarding the condom in the garbage can in the corner before settling onto the towels beside Castiel. His fingertips smear through the mess on Cas’s belly as he settles. They’re pressed so close together that the heat radiates between them.

“Good thing we have a lot of towels,” the guy says offhandedly. “You’re a mess.”

“I’m not complaining,” Castiel replies sleepily. “Doubt you are either.” Still, he grabs one of the many towels strewn about the floor, wiping off his hands and his belly before discarding it in the general vicinity of a hamper in the corner. “It sounds like the storm is getting worse.”

His companion stills, looking skyward as he contemplates the sounds filtering in from outside. “We could be here a while,” he offers.

“Indeed,” Castiel agrees. “Could be stuck here all night.”

“That’s a lot of time to pass,” the stranger offers innocently. “Wanna make out?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Anonymous sex, anal sex with insufficient lube, weather related near-misses, Top Dean.  
>   
>  ~*~  
>   
> Hey there, campers, Imp here.
> 
> Hell of a meeting, eh?
> 
> A bit of a challenge for those of you who've read both of our work before (and we know we share a number of fans, you kinky bastards). If you think you've got an inkling of who has written which bits, let us know in comments! We can't guarantee we'll confirm or deny your suspicions, but we're interested to know what you think. Your only hint is this: there are patterns, but they're not absolute, and any "rules" you think you've discovered on who wrote what? There are exceptions.
> 
> Now, then. Interested in finding out Dean's thoughts on this particular meet-filthy (it's like a meet-cute only a lot more naked)? In Chapter Two you get to hear from Dean! Go on, off you go.


	2. Day One: May 8, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a whirlwind night (pun definitely intended), Dean wakes up on the floor of a shack, disoriented and, unfortunately, alone. Doesn’t mean he’s completely without hope, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings in the end notes

**_Dean_ **

Under ordinary circumstances, Dean would’ve had to assume the images lazily circling in his mind as he swims toward consciousness are the result of a particularly vivid erotic dream. There’s just no way in hell they could be anything else, right? Reality does not look like…that. Nobody actually ends up tucked into a tiny shack on a beach in the middle of a hurricane, fucking the impossibly beautiful stranger who just saved them from death by umbrella. That’s the kind of shit you find in the cheesy softcore (or not so softcore, sometimes, although Dean could live a thousand years and never admit why he knows that) housewife porn Jess, his brother’s new bride reads. Under ordinary circumstances, it would not even begin to occur to Dean that those images, however vivid, were anything but the workings of his admittedly sexually frustrated mind.

These are not ordinary circumstances.

For one thing, the unpleasantly hard surface he’s sprawled across is most definitely not a mattress—either his own beloved memory foam or the plush but unfamiliar hotel room’s. Admittedly, that alone doesn’t necessarily mean anything—he’s had more than one gnarly dream and ended up on more than one floor after a night of heavy drinking, but there’s no telltale pounding of his head or roiling in his stomach to herald the kind of killer hangover that inevitably follows such nights. For another, even half-asleep he recognizes the unpleasant, slightly stiff crustiness left behind by the salt water he was doused in last night—not to mention the also unpleasant and slightly stiff, but nevertheless distinctly different crustiness around his groin left behind by something else altogether.

Even when Dean opens his eyes and discovers that he’s laid out naked atop a very rumpled pile of towels on the floor of what he most definitely recognizes as the shack from his possibly-not-a-dream, he’s not sold on the whole thing being real. He is, after all, _alone._ He figures there’s a 50/50 shot that he actually got knocked in the head by some storm debris, staggered in here, had an incredibly vivid hallucination, jerked off (because yeah, that’s definitely a streak of dried spooge on his stomach), and passed out for—hell, how long _has_ he been out? The strip of brilliant sunlight coming in from under the door tells him that it’s definitely daytime, and a quick glance at his watch clarifies that it’s a little after 8 in the morning.

It’s not until he scrubs his hands across his face, hears the crackle of paper (and yelps at the sudden tiny but sharp pain above one eyebrow—fucking hell, papercut) that he starts to accept that this shit really happened. He has to, because when he unfolds his hand and smooths out the crumpled scrap of paper that he totally failed to notice was tucked into it, he discovers that while the impossibly sexy man of his actually-not-a-dream must have snuck out while Dean was still passed out, he’s left a message behind.

It’s incredibly brief and to-the-point. There is a precision to the handwriting, a neatness that reminds Dean a little of his grade school teachers, and there is nothing tentative about the bold strokes with which the ballpoint pen has marked the—what the hell is it, anyway? Dean checks and discovers that the message is scrawled on the back of a receipt. The man who left this note must have felt very strongly about doing so if the makeshift paper, the firmness of the writing, and the fact that it was literally left _in Dean’s hand_ are anything to go by. Not to mention, the guy didn’t bother mincing words. Nope, there’s no misinterpreting this missive—all two words of it (or actually, one word and one number, but whatever). Dean stares at it for a long moment, trying not to think about the fact that he’s just deconstructed every possible scrap of meaning to be found in the note as thoroughly as a lovestruck teenage girl deconstructs a text message from her crush.

_Room 1273,_ the stranger’s handwriting says, and it’s by far the most attractive invitation Dean can ever remember receiving, including the engraved and gilded one still stuck on his fridge, begging his presence at Sam and Jess’s recent wedding.

Rather than remaining naked on a towel-strewn concrete floor to process what happened and what he’s gonna do about it, Dean actually has enough sense to start scrabbling for his clothes. They’re still damp in spots. Impressively, that’s actually less unpleasant than the stiffness of the dry areas. This is why people don’t wash their clothes in saltwater. Grimacing, he pulls them on, flatly refusing to think about why he is unwilling to put the makeshift note down even long enough to dress.

Phantom but no-less-vivid blue eyes topped by wild hair track his movements as he does, the beautiful and still nameless man’s absence taking up at least as much space as his presence did last night. Fully dressed, Dean finally drags himself to his feet, arching his back and groaning as it pops in at least four places. “Fuck,” he mutters, his voice a little startling in the quiet of the shack, “I’m getting too old for shit like this.”

Oh, who is he kidding? He will never be too old for blue eyes, rock hard abs, and the kind of gravelly growl that sends a thrill of heat through his groin, even in memory. If he ever actually gets too old to stick his cock in an ass that impossibly hot, just take him out back and shoot him.

For the moment, though, Dean needs a shower and some coffee before he even _thinks_ about what he’s gonna do with the message now firmly tucked into the only dry pocket he’s got. He actually has a hand on the knob, ready to exit the shack and stagger back to his room when he abruptly pivots to take a final look around the tiny (and, thanks to Dean and Mystery Man, now impressively shambolic) room.

So much for not thinking about last night. The memories all slam into him, so sharp and clear that suddenly he’s hanging onto the knob for balance.

_He shouldn’t be on the beach. He knows this. It’s damn near midnight, he’s flying out early afternoon tomorrow, and he still needs to make sure the hotel has all the information about where to ship the massive stacks of gifts that Sam and Jess left him to deal with when they flew off to…wherever the fuck they’re going on their honeymoon. And oh yeah, if that weren’t enough, there’s also the whole hurricane thing._

_But he can’t resist. He’s never seen a hurricane before—you don’t get too many of them in South Dakota—and it feels like this one, which sprang up practically out of nowhere nearly a month before the official start of hurricane season, must be just for him. He loves weather in all its forms, even thought about maybe being a meteorologist for a while, back before he realized that school really wasn’t for him._

_So here he is, bare feet sinking a little in the sopping sand, wind and surf roaring in his ears as he stares out at the furious ocean. For a guy who’s usually pretty goddamn observant, he must be batting a solid .000 tonight, because not only does he fail to see the umbrella about to wipe him out, he is taken completely by surprise when something heavy crashes into him, knocking him into the sand so hard he’s lucky he didn’t break his face._

_Except—no. Not some_ thing. _Some_ one. _It’s a person. A_ person _just linebacker-tackled him into the sand. “What the fuck?!” Dean demands, trying to push up, to force his attacker off of him. He’s surprised to discover that whoever’s above him is nearly as heavy as he is and at least as strong. After a few seconds, the guy (it’s definitely a guy, as closely as they’re plastered together he would be able to feel boobs if there were any) lifts enough that Dean has room to roll onto his back. As he starts to push himself over, a gravelly voice emerges from above him._

_“The umbrella,” the guy says, nonsensically. The fuck does an umbrella have to do with anyth—oh. Dean follows the pointing finger and sees the umbrella in question, wrecked in the sand precisely where he was standing just seconds ago. Fuck, that thing has a thick iron pole. If it had hit him… “You could have_ died,” _the growl comes again, unnecessarily. Dean can_ see _that. He’s opening his mouth to reiterate his demand for the man, savior or no, to get the hell off of him when he finally makes it onto his back and gets his first look at the guy._

_His mouth snaps shut again, fury ebbing. Yeah, he just got tackled to the sand on an abandoned beach in mid-hurricane by some weirdo, but the weirdo has one of the sexiest faces Dean has ever seen. His eyes are the kind of blue that defies description, sharp and intelligent. The cheekbones are high, the jawline strong, the chin well-defined with a beautiful cleft. The man’s dark hair is wet and currently being whipped around by the incredibly strong wind buffeting them, but Dean doesn’t have much attention to spare for that. He’s way too focused on the fierce intentness in the man’s face—or he was, right up until that incredibly sexy intensity melted into something that looks a lot like awed befuddlement. Come to think of it, it’s probably about the same look on Dean’s face at the moment. They are both silent for what might be a few seconds or possibly a century. Even the sound of the storm that rages around them seems to fade away as Dean topples into those eyes, and he knows with perfect clarity that the other man is experiencing the same bizarre gravitational shift. Captured in the intensely blue gaze, caged by strong arms and pinned underneath this beautiful, muscular stranger, Dean is suddenly rock hard in his jeans._

_“Do you think you could let me up?” He asks, a little unsteadily. All else being equal, he’s not actually sure he does want the guy to let him up, but if there’s anything more awkward than having the gorgeous, probably straight dude who just saved your life realize that you just abruptly got a hard-on, Dean doesn’t want to experience it._

The entire evening, from first meeting to that incredibly hot fuck to what had to be at least an hour of lazy, slow, but no-less-passionate making out that preceded falling asleep tangled in each other’s arms, flashes by in the blink of an eye. “Dear Penthouse,” Dean mutters to himself, shaking his head in dumbfounded amazement. If Penthouse published guy-on-guy letters, this shit would be a shoo-in.

When he at last manages to get his brain back online (and it takes a minute, probably because all available blood flow is currently circulating a little further south), Dean staggers barefoot out of the shack. His shoes have to be long gone, and he forgets about them almost immediately when faced with the aftermath of Mother Nature’s fury.

The beach is a disaster. There’s debris everywhere—leaves, driftwood, palm fronds, shingles that must have come from the hotel roof, even a few palm trees that couldn’t withstand the winds. The umbrella that nearly killed Dean is another fifty yards down the beach, torn to shreds, and the other iron furniture he remembers seeing out here has been scattered far and wide, all of it looking distinctly worse for wear.

Dean takes a second to really process how deeply stupid it was for him to be on the beach in the first place, and how lucky he is that he didn’t end up being a footnote to a headline: “Unseasonable Hurricane Strikes Caribbean Islands; 1 fatality reported.”

He owes his mystery savior (who he has decided to mentally christen “Blue Eyes,” because creativity is not his strong suit) a serious thank you. Maybe a blow job will serve as— _no, Dean,_ he interrupts his own train of thought, _coffee first. Then you can—oh shit!_

It hits him like a freight train, the realization that he’s supposed to be flying out in five hours. He’s not packed, he hasn’t taken care of the gifts, he still need to shower, fucking _hell._ There won’t be any blow job, there won’t be any _anything_ other than hauling ass so he doesn’t miss his flight.

His lazy walk up the beach turns into a sprint, because he doesn’t even have his phone on him to check his flight status. He left it in the room last night, accurately figuring that it would get soaked if he brought it out to the beach with him.

As it turns out, his panic over making his flight is unnecessary. He’s barely made it two steps into the lobby when he hears the hotel employee speaking with a very agitated-looking guest.

“—very sorry, sir, but I can assure you that we will be happy to extend your reservation until the airport reopens.”

“I need to be back in the states by tomorrow, the next day at the latest,” the man insists, “surely you have some kind of estimate!”

“I’m afraid the only information we have for sure is that all incoming and outgoing flights have been cancelled for today due to storm damage at the airport.”

Dean tells himself the little jump in his gut is just stress, since he now has to pay for his hotel room for at least another night, maybe more, and Bobby, who flew back to Sioux Falls yesterday morning, is probably gonna be pissed that Dean will miss even more work. It’s definitely not _excitement._ Nobody gets excited about having their travel plans fucked with. Not even when there’s a room number burning a hole in their pocket.

Abandoning the poor hotel employee to deal with the wildly gesticulating guest, Dean heads for the elevator and tells himself it’s an accident when he very nearly pushes the button for the twelfth floor instead of the fourteenth. In the end, he makes it to his room, readier than ever for a shower and a cup of coffee.

His phone is ringing when he gets the door open, but by the time he’s crossed the threshold it’s already gone to voicemail. Whatever, if it’s important they’ll leave a message. He doesn’t even bother to check the thing—no point in rushing, now that he knows the airport is closed—before stripping off his clothes and heading for the bathroom.

Maybe the best thing about staying in a hotel is the unlimited hot water, and Dean avails himself of it liberally. By the time he leaves the shower he’s squeaky clean and a little pruney. For a while, he even tries to pretend that he didn’t take the opportunity to jerk off (despite his cock continuing to fly at half-mast in deference to the many explicit images his mind keeps supplying him with) because he didn’t really need to, and not because he’s saving that orgasm for something a little more fulfilling than solo action. In the end, though, exactly who is he kidding? Two floors down, a gorgeous man who also happens to be an incredible lay is waiting to see whether Dean’s going to avail himself of the offer. A gorgeous man who, Dean reminds himself, _saved his life._ Really, the least he owes Blue Eyes is stopping by with a cup of coffee to say ‘thanks.’ And if one thing should lead to another…well, it’s not like he has anywhere to be today.

His would-be casual attitude about the whole thing is belied by how much care Dean takes in dressing himself. Taking a minute to thank whatever deity might be listening that he’s always been an over-packer, Dean digs out his nicest pair of jeans (okay, fine, the ones that make his ass look the best), topping them with a green button-down Jess bought for him last year. She says it compliments his eyes. Dean rarely wears it—he rarely wears button-downs at all, unless they’re made of flannel—but he brought it along since it was Jess’s wedding, after all.

Dean is still a pretty casual guy at heart, so he ends up rolling the sleeves up to his elbows, then takes more time than he’s willing to admit in front of the mirror, carefully gelling his hair. Ordinarily, he’d make himself a quick cup of coffee with the in-room coffee maker, but today he decides to venture back down to the lobby’s coffee shop to get a fancier cup. Not, of course, because he’s thinking there’s somebody he’d like to bring a cup of coffee to; he wouldn’t put that much thought into a virtual stranger. In fact, just to prove it, he doesn’t go back across the room to fish the tiny scrap of paper out of his discarded pants (he conveniently pretends like he doesn’t have Blue Eyes’ room number already memorized), pausing only to grab his cell phone and room key before heading back for the lobby.

He listens to his voicemail in the elevator. There’s one from Sam and Jess, who have heard about the hurricane and want to make sure he’s okay. Two more are automated messages from the airline. One came in last night around 1AM, telling him that his departure had been pushed back three hours. The next one must’ve been the phone call Dean missed on his way into his room, and sure enough, it informs him that his flight is cancelled as a result of airport closures and urges him to call the airline’s hotline for rebooking information.

He goes ahead and makes the call after ordering two medium roasts, black, at the coffee shop (yeah, two. He does owe Blue Eyes that thank you, after all) and is actually a little surprised when he gets put through to a representative pretty quickly. She’s got a sweet voice and a peppy attitude, and there is real sincerity in her voice when she sympathizes with Dean about the disruption in travel plans. Ordinarily he’d be flirting, but today he sticks with laid-back politeness as she takes a look at things and tells him there’s still no estimate on when the airport is likely to reopen. She tentatively rebooks him tomorrow on the same flight he was supposed to be on today and tells him that he’ll get a phone call informing him of the cancellation if the airport ends up being closed again tomorrow. It occurs to him that if that’s the case, he’s gonna have to go through this whole process again. Yeah, _this_ is why travel disruptions suck.

He calls Bobby on his way back to the elevator. It takes some maneuvering while juggling two coffees and his phone, but he manages to push the button for the twelfth floor with his elbow just as Bobby picks up. The conversation is short—the guy can’t exactly blame him for a hurricane, and Dean can tell that his gruff grouchiness is mostly for show, since Bobby only calls him an idjit once. He promises that he’ll keep Bobby in the loop on travel plans and hangs up the phone to discover that he’s standing directly in front of room 1273.

Holy shit, what the hell is he _doing?_ Here he is, ready to barge into the room of some stranger—a _stranger,_ no matter how gorgeous—and, what, turn his unbelievably hot and unexpected one-night-stand into a 24-hour stand?

Dean tells himself that the sudden anxiety is just because the situation is weird and, yeah, maybe a little bit because it’s a guy. It’s not like his bisexuality comes as any huge shock to him—he’s known this about himself for a long time and fooled around with more than one guy. He’s not exactly “out,” such as it is, mostly because there’s never been any reason to be. He doesn’t really date guys, he just sometimes fucks them.

So, yeah, this is just a little weird. Because it’s a dude. Not because it’s a dude who swept Dean off his fucking feet in both the literal and figurative senses. Because any guy he’s fooled around with in the past he’s seen exactly once and never again. He doesn’t come back for round two with dudes. That’s just a little too serious. He fucks them and leaves them.

And there’s that, too.

Dean topped last night. What if this guy expects him to return the favor? Dean does _not_ bottom. He is very much the fucker, not the fuckee. He can wrap his mind around getting busy with dudes, but taking cock up his ass is a few steps too far.

This is…this is weird, right? He can’t just show up at the hotel room of a random guy (Blue Eyes, his mind reminds him helpfully), even if it is maybe the hottest lay he’s ever had. Even if the guy was so into it that he let Dean fuck him without anything even remotely resembling adequate lube. Even if the noises he made still make Dean’s cock throb when his brain supplies him with their echoes in memory. Even if Dean’s never seen anything prettier than the look on his face when he threw his head back and _came._ Even if he literally kissed Dean into speechless stupefaction (which was another _brand new_ experience, by the way). Even if—

Dean’s pacing and muttering in front of the door (and yeah, he’s pacing and muttering) is suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice, just as gravelly as he remembers. Apparently, at some point Blue Eyes opened the door—Dean didn’t even hear it, for God’s sake, and what is it about this dude that seems to destroy Dean’s powers of observation wholesale?—and has been watching Dean argue with himself.

“Planning on coming in,” Blue Eyes inquires casually, but Dean can see the hint of amusement in those eyes (which are every bit as blue as he thought they were), “or should I leave you to it?”

Well, fuck. So much for making a smooth entrance. Dean suddenly remembers his pretext for being here—the coffee and gratitude—and extends his hand to offer one of the cups to Blue Eyes. “Do you accept payment for life-saving in the form of coffee,” he inquires with what he thinks is pretty impressive casualness, “or would you prefer some other currency?” Oh, shit. He’s flirting, isn’t he? That was definitely flirting. Or, you know, a proposition. Whichever.

The guy just _does things_ to him.

“Well,” says Blue Eyes, taking the coffee cup and stepping aside to let Dean saunter past him and into the room, “coffee’s a start, and I’m sure if we put our heads together we can come up with something to make up the difference.” Dean laughs, turning to really look at him for the first time. The man is clad in jeans and a button-down—his is the exact blue of his eyes—with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Dean figures he knows exactly how much thought went into the outfit since he went through the same process two floors up. Blue Eyes doesn’t bother with subtlety when he checks Dean out, and Dean sees the moment when he realizes what they’ve done with their outfits, because his eyes, already slightly amused, suddenly brighten with mirth. He chuckles once, then extends his free hand toward Dean in what is clearly intended to be an introduction. “I’m—“

Dean is interrupting before he’s made up his mind to do so. “Gorgeous, I assume single, into dudes, and an incredibly hot lay. That’s pretty much all I need to know about you. Let’s not make this into something it isn’t.”

The guy does not look remotely offended. Instead, he throws his head back and laughs throatily. The sound goes straight to Dean’s cock, taking him from half-hard to full attention. “Fair enough,” Blue Eyes tells him, “I don’t exactly need any complications myself, but I think we can at least manage first names, yeah? I didn’t want to interrupt last night, but I’d like to know what name to scream while I’m coming.”

Jesus fuck, how is it possible that this guy keeps getting hotter?

“I, uh,” Dean clears his throat, then matches Blue Eyes’ sexy smile with one of his own smoldering ones. It has a 100% success rate, and this time is no exception. Blue Eyes smile doesn’t fade, but Dean sees him swallow hard, “I guess I can see your point,” Dean allows, stalking slowly forward until he’s got the man backed against the wall. He takes a final step in, until their bodies are so close that Dean can feel his warmth. Then he leans in, lightly grazing his nose against the hint of stubble along the man’s jawline before murmuring directly into his ear. “And if you can still form words while I’m fucking you into the mattress, you can call me ‘Dean,’ beautiful.”

Blue Eyes’ breath is a little shaky when he releases it, and Dean might be a little worried that he’s pushed too hard if the other man wasn’t tilting his head toward Dean while settling his free hand onto Dean’s hip. “Not that I object to the nickname,” the man muses, voice somehow even lower with filthy suggestions that Dean fully plans on exploring, “but if it gets to be too many syllables, I also answer to Cas—“ his voice trips up, a little oddly, as if he suddenly paused mid-word for some reason, but maybe his throat just tightened a bit, because his tone smooths out instantly. “Cas,” he finishes, “you can call me Cas.”

“Well, Cas,” Dean inquires, letting his lips slide along the same path his nose just followed and relishing the shudder he draws from Blue Eyes—from Cas, “do you want to drink your coffee while it’s hot, or do you—“

“Fuck coffee,” Cas says succinctly, and now it is Dean’s turn to throw his head back and laugh.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean tells him, drawing back enough to snag the coffee so he can place both cups on the nearby counter, “why would I do that when I can fuck you?”

Cas groans, letting his head thunk back against the wall, and when Dean turns back toward him after setting the coffee down, the other man’s arms are already extended to welcome him back in. Dean eases back up to him, plastering their bodies together and kind of wishing he’d shown up wearing only the plush bathrobe the hotel provided so he wouldn’t have to worry about taking off his clothes. “Just so you know,” Cas tells him, nuzzling his face against Dean’s throat and nipping sharply at the sensitive skin under his jaw, “I’m usually all about foreplay, and at some point today I’m going to rock your world with the best blowjob you’ve ever had.”

“…but?” Dean inquires, well aware that the words were a disclaimer and pretty sure he knows what’s coming next.

Cas doesn’t disappoint him. “But if you don’t have your cock in my ass in the next two minutes, I’m going to tie you down and sit on it without your help.”

The words send a sharp jolt of sensation to his groin that Dean resolutely doesn’t think too hard about, and anyway, who has time for thought when you’ve gotten an offer that good? “You’re the boss,” Dean tells him easily, deft fingers making short work of the buttons concealing what he already knows is a perfectly sculpted chest, “I mean, I _was_ going to put you on your knees and finger you open slow until you were begging for me, but there’s time for that later. Maybe after that blowjob.”

“Airport’s closed,” Cas agrees breathlessly, “we’ve got time.” He shoves Dean’s shirt down over his arms. Dean obligingly shrugs out of it, letting it drop carelessly to the floor, then sets his hands on Cas’s hips, pulling the slightly shorter man away from the wall enough that Cas can slip out of his own shirt. Dean doesn’t bother to help him with that. He’s much too busy getting first Cas’s and then his own belt unfastened. They’re both out of their pants with impressive speed and before Dean knows it, Cas is the one backing him further into the room, until the backs of Dean’s knees hit the bed. He lets himself fall onto his back on the soft mattress as Cas climbs astride him.

Obviously the guy does not plan to waste any time, but Dean gives himself a couple seconds to really stare at him in the full light of day streaming through the open curtains. Impossibly, Cas is even more beautiful in the sunlight than he was in the shitty fluorescent lights of the shack.

A second later, Dean grunts in protest as Cas climbs right back off of him and crawls to the top of the bed. Dean takes the opportunity to watch his ass, which is even more perfect than he remembers, and how is that even _possible?_ It becomes clear what Cas is up to when he starts to scrabble in the bedside table’s top drawer, and Dean rolls over and follows him just in time to neatly pluck the bottle of lube and strip of condoms out of his hand. Cas moves as if to turn around, but Dean stops him with a single hand on his hip.

“Oh, no. No, you stay right there. You gave me two minutes to get my cock in your ass. If I’m not mistaken we’re running out of time, so you’re gonna keep that ass in the air for me, nice and accessible while I suit up.”

Cas groans again, dropping his head between his shoulders and arching his back, and Dean has never gotten a condom on faster in his life.

He’s not a total philistine so despite Cas’s words, he does take at least a few seconds to slide a couple lubed fingers up into Cas, and he makes sure to slick himself up extremely generously—it’s the least he can do to make up for last night. For all he knows Cas is still a little raw, and he doesn’t want to hurt the guy. Cas isn’t as worried, as evidenced by the outraged sound he makes when he gets two fingers and not a cock. It’s cool; Dean will make it up to him. He plants a hand on Cas’s hip to hold him steady and then he’s sliding home, unable to restrain the low moan that leaks out of him.

They couldn’t go nearly as hard as he wanted to last night—he had no desire to tear Cas to shreds, despite the man’s eagerness—and he damn sure makes up for it now. Of course, he starts off with long, slow strokes, making sure that Cas has a minute to adjust to his girth (he’s a gentleman, after all), but as soon as he feels those tight inner muscles relax a little, it’s on. He leaves one hand on Cas’s hip, plants the other on his shoulder, and uses the leverage to jerk him back into each thrust, until the sound of skin slapping on skin actually echoes throughout the room. Dean takes a second to hope that one of the reasons this place is so expensive is that they spent a lot of money on good soundproofing, but honestly, at this point even if Sam, Jess, Bobby, and everyone else he’s ever met were sitting right next door and the walls were paper-thin, nothing other than spontaneous combustion could stop Dean now.

And they might, at this rate. Spontaneously combust, that is, because this guy is definitely the hottest thing that’s ever happened to Dean. He fucks Cas as hard as he’s ever fucked anyone, and the man takes it like a champ, pressing back into Dean’s cock, leaking the filthiest noises he’s ever heard.

“You gonna come for me again,” Dean demands between gasps, “gonna come screaming my name? That better not have been false advertising.”

Cas doesn’t manage to put together a coherent response to this, but Dean doesn’t really mind. He imagines taking a cock up the ass this hard must require a fair amount of focus. Cas’s fingers are tearing at the bedclothes, making an absolute disaster of them, and for a few minutes the only sound is flesh against flesh. Dean feels his orgasm starting to build, that coil of tension tightening in his groin, and suddenly he needs more contact, to feel more of Cas against him. He shifts his hand from Cas’s hip, sliding it around his waist and pulling the other man upright, plastering his back against Dean’s chest. This also serves the additional purpose of allowing Dean to keep Cas upright with one arm across his chest while the other hand wraps around his hard, weeping cock.

That’s all it takes. Dean doesn’t even get a chance to start jerking him, doesn’t get to do anything but wrap his fingers around that velvety length before it starts pulsing, spilling over his fingers. Jesus, the responsiveness of this man. Cas throws his head back against Dean’s shoulder and shouts (Dean recognizes his own name, sure enough, a little mangled but clearly audible). The sound of his name cried in ecstasy by that gravelly voice combined with the squeeze of tight inner muscles around his cock drags Dean over the edge right along with Cas.

Dean fucks him through both of their orgasms, not letting up for an instant until he feels himself start to soften, feels that hint of encroaching oversensitivity.

Cas slumps back against him for a long moment or two, boneless and fucked out, and Dean finds himself pressing his lips against the man’s sweaty jaw and neck, trailing kisses up to his cheek, capturing his mouth when Cas turns his head obligingly.

The man kisses as good as he fucks.

~*~

They are both sprawled out on their backs staring at the ceiling, working on catching their breath and (at least in Dean’s case) trying to figure out how the hell he’s ever going to go back to having regular sex after a day with this sex god when Cas speaks.

“So. No-strings-attached, unbelievably hot sex with the supermodel-looking guy whose life I saved during a hurricane? Dear Penthouse…”

“That’s what I said!” Dean exclaims, rolling onto his side to take in the beautiful expanse of man beside him.

“Shame they don’t—“

“—publish guy-on-guy stuff, yeah.”

“Seriously. So here’s what I figure,” he goes on, sounding more businesslike. Dean props himself up on an elbow and sets his face into his hand to listen, “we take advantage of this mind-blowing sexual chemistry as long as we’re both stuck here. No identifying information, like you said, no making this into anything it isn’t. Just a day or two of killer sex before we go our separate ways.”

Dean doesn’t even have to think about it. “I’m in,” he tells Cas, then pauses and amends his agreement, “but I don’t bottom. Is that gonna be a problem?”

“Eh,” Cas shrugs, “I usually prefer to top, but obviously I don’t mind bottoming, and I definitely don’t mind bottoming for _you.”_

“I promise to make it worth your while,” Dean tells him, taking the opportunity to rake his eyes over every inch of toned, golden skin laid out before him, “while we work our way through our to-do list.”

Cas turns his head to grin at him, and the world tilts a little on its axis as Dean tumbles into those eyes yet again. The chemistry is, as Cas already said, fucking unreal. The _sexual_ chemistry, that is. They’re not making this into something it’s not, after all. “Sounds like a plan,” Cas agrees throatily, “and I can think of a few things I wouldn’t mind adding to that list.”

Dean clears his throat a little before returning the grin. “Give me another ten minutes and we can get started on that,” he says, kind of amazed to find that his cock is already thinking about getting back in on the action.

“Mmm, I can do that. Wanna make out?”

Does he ever.

~*~

It is, in fact, the best blowjob that Dean’s ever had.

And after being slowly and thoroughly fucked open on Dean’s fingers for over forty-five minutes, Cas does, in fact, beg for him beautifully.

The rest of the list’s additions are no less glorious, and his refractory time hasn’t been this good since fucking _high school._ He puts that down to two things: number one, Cas is possibly the hottest guy on the planet, and number two, the man is fucking insatiable.

And if, in between rounds, Dean also happens to discover that Cas’s head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck, or that the sound of his throaty laughter at Dean’s many wisecracks is richer and more delicious than fettucine alfredo, it’s no big deal. They’ve already laid out the terms, and there’s nothing in there that says they can’t enjoy each other’s company in between bouts of the best sex either of them has ever had.

Dean steps out mid-afternoon to call Sam and Jess, reassure them that he’s fine, and threaten dire consequences if they waste any of their honeymoon worrying about him. They encourage him to enjoy the impromptu extension of his trip. He doesn’t tell them exactly how much he’s already doing just that.

Other than that brief interlude, they don’t leave the room at all, relying on room service to keep them sustained. Dean is both astonished and incredibly turned on to discover that Cas can actually put away more cheeseburgers than he can. By the time midnight rolls around, Dean figures he probably ought to be heading back to his room—but Cas has just dozed off on his chest, and it’d be a dick move to wake up the guy since Dean is the one who fucked him into oblivion.

So instead, he fluffs the pillow behind his head, tightens his arms a little around Cas, and lets darkness drag him down, too.

Sometime around four, he wakes up to a mouth on his cock.

Seriously? Best. Vacation. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Somnophilia (in the sense that someone wakes up with their dick in someone else's mouth), discussions of bondage, Top Dean
> 
> ~*~
> 
> Imp here.
> 
> We take a lot of liberties in this fic, but possibly one of the most gratuitous ones is the absolute mess we make of actual refractory periods. Let’s be very clear: there is likely no pair of mid-thirties men on the planet who can realistically have even half of the sex that Cas and Dean have throughout. Their dicks would develop sentience solely in order to laugh at them if they tried. The tenacity and fortitude of both Dean and Cas’s cocks in this piece are so completely unrealistic that it’s not just bordering on ridiculous, it’s applied for and received permanent resident status therein.
> 
> We’re aware of that.
> 
> We just don’t care.
> 
> It’s fic, y’all. Suspend your disbelief and enjoy the biology-defying smut herein.


	3. Day Two: May 9, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean learns that sometimes the old adage really is true: don't knock it until you've tried it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

Castiel’s motives in rousing Dean with an earth shattering blow job are, he maintains, purely selfless. He’s entirely focused on the pleasure of his partner, this gorgeous man whose lap he basically fell into. There’s no other reason at all to wake the man up with the warmth of Cas’s mouth enveloping his perfect cock than his desire to give Dean as many orgasms as possible in their short time together.

None whatsoever.

It’s certainly not a reward for the twisted sense of joy he feels when he’s roused from sleep by some unknown noise to find that Dean stayed the night. He’d assumed that the agreement for no-strings-attached sex had carried with it a moratorium on cuddling, but he’d been too fucked out and content to worry about it the night before, after whatever round was the last before sleep claimed him. There’d been enough sex that he’d sort of lost count. So waking up with Dean’s arms wrapped around him was the most pleasant of surprises.

And it’s definitely not motivation to stay the rest of the night.

No, of course not. There’s not a single cell in Castiel’s brain that considers the possibility of Dean waking up after Cas falls back asleep and deciding that he needs to go back to his own room. Right. Of course. Castiel will just keep telling himself that until he believes it. If Dean wanted to leave, Castiel couldn’t stop him, and while Dean knows where Castiel’s room is, the reverse is not true. If Dean wanted to walk away, Castiel would likely never see him again. So yeah, Cas can’t stop him from leaving, but he figures he can do a pretty good job of preventing him from _wanting_ to leave. A four am blow job is the best way he can think of to accomplish that, that’s all.

So ok, maybe it’s not completely selfless. Yes, he wants to give Dean pleasure, but he also wants to keep Dean here. He wants to keep Dean all to himself for whatever time they have before the airport opens again and they can go back to their separate lives. And maybe, just maybe, it’s extra selfish, because the sounds Dean makes when Castiel swallows his cock down to the root and lets the head nudge against the back of his throat are, to be entirely honest, the most sinfully gorgeous sounds he’s ever heard, and he wants to memorize every single one. He’ll be hearing those sounds in his daydreams for years to come. He’ll be imagining those sounds when he jerks himself off long after he goes back to his solitary life and this unexpected encounter is nothing more than a distant, beautiful memory.

So. Definitely not completely selfless.

But he still very much wants to make Dean feel good.

He’s pretty damn sure he was successful at that particular aim, and several hours later he discovers that his other motives worked out at least as well. When Castiel wakes to hazy morning light streaming through the gap in the curtains, there are still strong arms wrapped around his waist, and his head is still pillowed on a broad and muscular chest that rises and falls with the steady rhythm of one in a deep and pleasant sleep. Castiel himself slept incredibly well. He supposes that’s what happens when you exhaust yourself completely with round after round of unfathomably satisfying sex. And Dean, well, he did most of the work (except for that one go-round when Castiel straddled his lap and rode his perfect cock until they were both screaming in ecstasy), so it’s not surprising that he’s still asleep when Castiel’s brain decides it’s time to be awake.

Grudgingly, he extricates himself from the cage of Dean’s arms, telling himself he’s imagining the pout that forms on that gorgeous face when he slips away. Really, Castiel has no desire to leave the comfort of bed, but his bladder has strong opinions on the subject and refuses to be ignored. So he climbs out of bed, spares a parting glance for the truly beautiful sight of Dean sprawled there sleeping peacefully, naked save for a sheet, and pads to the bathroom on silent feet. He relieves himself, brushes his teeth, and indulges in possibly the quickest shower in recorded history, still slightly fearful that he’ll exit the bathroom and find Dean has disappeared, never to be seen again.

Despite the care Cas has taken not to disturb him, Dean is awake when he returns. He’s scrubbing the heel of one hand across tired eyes, his hair a disaster, but he still manages to look truly gorgeous. Castiel violently suppresses a thought about how lucky he is to get to wake up next to this stunning creature even for just a few days, but lets the broad smile the idea inspires spread across his face anyway. Dean grins when he notices Cas has returned to the room, tucking his arms behind his head as he takes his ease.

There’s really no reason to be out of bed yet, so Cas slides back in beside Dean, the soft mattress yielding under his body as he shifts closer. Dean snakes an arm around his waist and tugs them together, kissing the minty taste of toothpaste off of Castiel’s lips.

“I’m fucking starving,” Dean grumbles, nuzzling his face against Castiel’s hair.

“Too early,” Cas whines. “I can’t even think about food yet.”

“I have no idea what time it is,” Dean admits, “But we burned a _lot_ of calories yesterday, so if we’re hoping to keep up this pace we’re gonna have to eat breakfast. I’ll make you a deal. Lemme order us some room service, and I’ll blow you while we wait for delivery.”

Castiel can’t argue with that. Room service it is.

~*~

After a truly satisfying blow job, three cups of coffee, and a passable omelette, Castiel is feeling a little bit more awake but no more inclined to get out of bed and begin the day. If anything, his desire to leave the comfort of the hotel’s king size is reduced to absolute zero. It probably has something to do with the company he’s keeping.

So imagine Castiel’s disappointment when Dean throws back the sheets with a weary groan and announces plans to go back to his own room.

“I need a shower,” Dean tells him, stretching arms over his head. Even as a pit opens in Cas’s stomach, he can’t keep his eyes off the hard muscle of Dean’s chest, the little bit of softness around his belly. He could stare at this man for days. He could make a career of studying him and be perfectly content. “And some clean clothes.”

“Okay,” Castiel replies, trying not to sound too forlorn. Dean starts retrieving pieces of his clothing. A sock landed on the dresser. His jeans are under a chair. His shoes, at least, are near the door where he left them. He’s yet to find his shirt. They didn’t exactly spend much time in clothing yesterday, and it all came off in such a hurry that Cas isn’t surprised it’s strewn about in such a mess. “I’ll catch up with you later, then.”

“You’re not coming?” Dean seems astonished at the revelation (and maybe, just maybe, a little disappointed). “I thought you might tag along. You know, do basically the same thing we did yesterday except in my room instead of yours? If you want, I mean. You don’t have to.”

Of _course_ Castiel wants to. He definitely wants this. “Yeah, ok,” he replies, all feigned nonchalance. “I could do that.” He allows himself a shy smile, ducking his head to disguise it as he climbs out of bed to pull on a clean t-shirt and the first pair of jeans his suitcase surrenders, knowing full well it doesn’t really matter what he wears because he’s not likely to be spending much time with his clothes on.

~*~

Dean’s room is a perfect mirror image of Castiel’s. The bed is dressed in the same brown and white covers, the walls are adorned with the same paper, and the sliding doors open onto an identical patio, except where Castiel’s looks out over the resort’s largest swimming pool, Dean’s has a view of the beach. Even from fourteen stories up, the destruction is clearly visible. There are palm trees sprawled across the sand at odd angles. Clearing these away will probably be very far down the to-do list on the cleanup effort. Along the treeline, nearly shielded from view by palms that weathered the storm better than their fallen compatriots, Castiel can see the shack he and Dean took refuge in, and it brings a smile to his face.

The shower still runs in the background. Dean didn’t bother to take clean clothes in with him, so at least part of Cas’s mind is on the fact that soon, he’s going to watch Dean walk out of the bathroom either naked or precariously wrapped in a towel, skin pink from the heat of the shower. Castiel’s cock already stirs in anticipation, so to distract himself, he fishes his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. After connecting to the hotel’s WiFi, he pulls up the website for the airport. A large banner with red borders and bold lettering affirms what he suspected; the terminal is still closed, having sustained damage during the storm, and due to large debris on many of the major runways and concerns about additional high winds, all flights are grounded until further notice. There isn’t even an estimated date of resolution, though Castiel is sure they have one in mind; they’re just not sharing yet. It’s always the way of these things. Under-promise and over-deliver.

He’s still staring at his phone, half-reading emails he doesn’t currently care one whit about, when Dean steps out of the bathroom. The towel wrapped around his waist is the only thing standing between the man and complete nudity and he wears it well. Little droplets of water fall from his hair to land on his broad shoulders, leaving tantalizing trails as they run rivulets down his back, and his chest bears a pink flush that makes Castiel think decidedly unwholesome thoughts. He’d turned that same shade, if memory serves, when Castiel had followed through on his promise and ridden Dean’s dick last night. It’s hard to remember clearly. There were hands everywhere and things moved so fast. Perhaps they should repeat the encounter just to be certain.

He’s about to open his mouth to share the news about the airport when the light nearest Dean flickers angrily, the bulb flaring brighter than all the others before shattering with a loud crack, spilling shards of glass to the carpet just in front of Dean’s feet. Acting without really thinking again, Castiel’s feet, still shielded in the safety of his shoes, carry him across the room swiftly. Just as before, his body connects with Dean’s and drives him out of harm’s way, feet crunching on the glass as he slams Dean against the wall.

Castiel’s only thought was for Dean’s safety. His only desire was to prevent him from spending the next hour digging microscopic shards of glass out of the bottoms of his bloodied feet. But when the flurry of motion settles, Castiel finds them pressed up against the wall, Dean’s towel now draped between them and held up only by the crush of their bodies, and Dean is hard where he’s pressed against Cas’s thigh. _Hard,_ and what’s more, completely pliant in Castiel’s grip.

“Power surge,” Dean squeaks out, voice high, as if he can’t summon up enough strength to let it boom as it usually does. “Storm probably damaged part of the grid.” His eyes slip shut, preventing Castiel reading much into his gaze, but he’s already got a pretty good idea of how to interpret this.

“Likely,” Castiel agrees, but his mind is elsewhere.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” Dean jibes, regaining some of his composure. He stifles a very telling groan when Cas tightens his grip on Dean’s biceps, though, so not all of it.

“I don’t know,” Castiel muses. “You don’t seem to mind terribly. I thought you said you don’t bottom.”

“I don’t,” Dean protests, a few errant drops of water flying free as he shakes his head.

“You seem to enjoy being manhandled an awful lot for someone who doesn’t wanna get fucked.” Castiel doesn’t even let him answer, just closes the scant distance between their mouths and kisses Dean breathless, slotting a knee between his thighs to grind against that already hard cock. Dean kisses back hungrily, whimpering softly against Castiel’s mouth as the friction between his thighs melts his resolve.

“I…” Dean begins, then trails off. Words completely fail him. Castiel just mouths at the bolt of his jaw, bringing his lips close to Dean’s ear, his words a filthy whisper.

“I won’t try to talk you into doing anything you don’t want, but if this is how hot you get just from me throwing you against a wall, imagine how good it’d feel if you let me hold you down and fuck you nice and slow and deep.”

Dean doesn’t whimper at that. He full out groans, head thrown back against the wall to bare his throat. It doesn’t sound like disagreement to Castiel, but he needs to be sure.

“Does that sound like something you want, Dean?” he taunts, his voice low. “You want me to open you up nice and slow, make you feel real good?”

“Fuck,” Dean breathes in reply. “Yeah, Cas. I…fuck. Yes.” A smile spreads across Cas’s lips, slow and sweet like syrup. He nips his way along Dean’s throat, tracing his tongue over every tiny bite as he moves. With his hands still on Dean’s arms, he steps back from the wall and guides Dean toward the bed, the covers still pristine from the turndown that must have happened while they were holed up in Castiel’s room the day before. Dean’s towel falls in their wake, letting his hard cock hang heavy and exposed between his legs. Castiel ignores it for now. It’ll get plenty of attention later.

Dean reclines on his elbows, a mountain of pillows under him at the head of the bed, watching intently as Castiel strips out of his clothes. He’s got enough presence of mind to leave them in a somewhat neat pile on a chair, his shoes tucked under, and collect a bottle of lube out of his pocket, but only just enough for that. Every other fibre of his being is focused on the fact that Dean is sprawled out before him, no experience at all on this side of what’s about to happen but apparently willing. Castiel has to make it good for him. He must. Everything about this experience has to be about Dean’s pleasure. Cas has got to make him feel so good that he forgets every single reason he’s never bottomed before. Castiel doesn’t know what those reasons are, and the boundaries of their agreement prevent him from asking, but Cas knows instinctively that he needs to make this good enough that those reasons don’t matter anymore.

“If anything doesn’t feel good, tell me, and I’ll stop,” Cas instructs him, climbing onto the foot of the bed between Dean’s spread thighs. He leans down to capture Dean’s mouth in a hot kiss, one hand supporting his own weight and the other caressing lazily over Dean’s body. Dean hums in agreement, clutching Cas’s shoulders but otherwise letting himself submit completely to Cas’s attentions. It’s so lovely to see him like this, so willing and relaxed under Castiel’s hands. All their other couplings (and there have been many in the past 36 hours) have put Dean in the driver’s seat, and he’s been aggressive and attentive and powerful. Even when Castiel sat in his lap and rode his dick, Dean gripped his hips tight and rocked up into him, determined to be the one doing the fucking. Castiel would have expected Dean to fight this a bit more even after agreeing to it, but it’s like he was just waiting for an invitation to let go, and now that Castiel has offered one he gives himself over to it so very naturally.

Castiel moves smoothly down Dean’s body, taking time to lick and nibble his nipples to hardness before tracing a line down his belly with the point of his tongue. Dean squirms, apparently ticklish, but he doesn’t make any move to stop Cas’s progression south. If anything, his pleased hums are encouragement and Cas takes them as an invitation to move this thing along.

A single finger nudges its way between Dean’s cheeks, just teasing against the tight furl of Dean’s hole. “Can I kiss you here?” he implores. Dean’s breath hitches, every muscle in his body going still as he considers. Castiel wonders what he’s thinking. Is he worried that wanting this makes him somehow lesser, that giving in to baser desires will make him into someone he thinks he isn’t? Is he worried that Castiel is going to take and take and take, with no regard for Dean’s own wants? Is he at war because he knows this is something he wants, but doesn’t know how to acknowledge it? Castiel may never know.

“Yeah,” Dean answers breathlessly after a long minute of consideration. “Yeah, ok.” If he’s got hesitations, he doesn’t share them. Still, it’s enough for Castiel. He crawls the rest of the way down the bed, laying down between Dean’s thighs and pushing his legs up to expose his ass. Dean seems to hold his breath as he waits for the first touch of Cas’s mouth, but as soon as Cas’s tongue darts out to lick tentatively, Dean relaxes noticeably. His worries abated, Castiel enthusiastically applies himself to the task, spreading Dean’s cheeks with his hands so he can get in real close, the hesitation of his first touches replaced with more certain licks and kisses. Above him on the bed, Dean moans loudly, unable to contain his pleasure at the feeling of Castiel’s tongue touching him so intimately.

When Dean is slick with spit and beginning to loosen up, Castiel works a single finger in beside his tongue, pushing and twisting with gentle care and attention. Dean hasn’t stopped whimpering since the second Cas started licking him open, and he certainly doesn’t stop now. If anything, his whines become more desperate, almost pleading, though he doesn’t seem to have the desire or ability to put words to his request. He’s probably ready for more, Castiel figures, but slow and careful is the order of the day so he’s in no rush to move things along. Instead, he takes his sweet time teasing Dean with tongue and lips and fingers, stretching him open until there’s no doubt that he’s ready for Cas’s cock. Only then does he push back onto his knees and grab the lube, slicking up two fingers before sliding them back into the heat of Dean’s ass.

“Feel good?” Cas asks, though he has a pretty good idea of what Dean’s answer is going to be. He’s been in this position several times himself since he met Dean, stretched open around fingers in preparation for something bigger, slick with lube, moaning in pleasure. It’s nearly rhetorical, but Dean answers anyway.

“Fuck yeah,” he groans. “I had no idea.”

“Just wait,” Castiel promises. “It gets even better. You think you’re ready?” Dean nods, his enthusiasm apparent. It’s all the reply Cas needs, reaching for the condoms on Dean’s bedside table and rolling one on. He slicks himself up with more lube and searches Dean’s face for any remaining hesitation, but he finds none. There’s only desire in his eyes, and when Cas lines up and pushes the head of his cock in nice and slow, Dean’s mouth falls open in silent rapture, too surprised at how good it feels to do anything other than lie there and take it.

It takes all the resolve Cas has not to just hold Dean down and fuck him hard and fast. He’s so _tight_ , his ass squeezing Cas’s cock in the most amazing way, and though he’s too stunned to make noise at the moment, Cas wants to make him cry out in pleasure. Dean clings to him, holding on for dear life as Cas finally bottoms out, bringing their bodies impossibly close together. Once he’s slid all the way home though, he forces himself to stay still. He knows Dean’s in uncharted territory, and the last thing he wants to do is rush this and hurt him.

He always intended to let Dean decide when he was ready for more, but he gets there much sooner than Cas expected. Cas has just leaned his head down to nip at Dean’s throat when he starts rolling his hips, urging Cas to move. His hands find purchase on Cas’s ass and pull him down. The first thrust is shallow and careful, and Dean moans so desperately that Cas isn’t actually sure how long either of them is going to last.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, ever the conversationalist.

“Yeah,” Cas agrees, working his hips in slow circles. “I know.” He’s surprised at how beautifully Dean moves with him, his body lithe and pliant. Every move Cas makes, Dean matches him, rocking his hips up to meet each thrust and take him in deeper. Now that he knows how good it can feel to have his ass full of cock it’s like he can’t get enough, and Castiel is happy to oblige. He rocks back a little faster, a little harder, experimentally changing the angle at which he’s fucking into Dean, and he’s rewarded with the most beautiful whimper, a choked-out sob that is practically music to Cas’s ears. One hand bracing himself on the mattress, Castiel works the other between their sweat-slick bodies to grasp Dean’s leaking cock.

“Wanna make you come,” Cas breathes. “Wanna make it so good for you.” His grip on Dean’s cock is firm, fist flying and thumb dragging through precome on the head, but his thrusts are still slow and deep. He wants Dean to feel every inch of him, wants to draw every ounce of pleasure possible out of this experience. He wants Dean to have the best orgasm possible the first time he bottoms, not just so he can know how good it can be, but because he harbours a tiny and selfish hope that if it’s memorable enough, Dean will always think of how amazing Cas made him feel the first time he got fucked in the ass.

Dean is getting close. His breath comes in ragged gasps, fingertips digging into Cas’s shoulders as he holds on for dear life. “Come on,” Cas urges. “Just let go.” He draws back until just the head of his cock is buried in the heat of Dean’s ass and slides home in long, tantalizing strokes, slow enough that Dean can’t help but feel all of it, every single touch. Cas is still coaxing him through it, imploring him to let go and take his pleasure when Dean stiffens and cries out, his cock spurting hot streaks of come over Cas’s fingers. Cas doesn’t stop fucking him, doesn’t stop working his hand over Dean’s softening cock until his own orgasm overtakes him, and even then he just collapses to the bed, heedless of the mess between them. He carefully pulls out, tying off the condom and dropping it into the garbage can on the floor, but he can’t bring himself to move much more than that.

“Wow,” Dean offers cleverly a few minutes later when the power of speech has been at least marginally restored to him. “That was…”

“Good?” Cas supplies helpfully (and hopefully).

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Yeah. That.”

“So was that a one-time thing? Or do you bottom now?” Cas’s fingertips stroke teasingly along Dean’s thigh as they lay in the afterglow, but his question is anything but a tease.

Dean laughs, full and throaty. “I don’t know if I can say for sure I’m gonna bottom with anyone else in the future, but if that’s what it’s like with you…” he rolls in close, kissing Castiel with surprising passion. “Then it’s definitely not a one-time thing.”

“I shall strive to exceed your expectations,” Castiel tells him playfully. There’s no need to announce that he means it honestly.

“I’m sure you’re equal to the challenge,” Dean assures him, then sighs with exhaustion. “I suppose one of us should check the status of the airport at some point.”

“I already did,” Cas admits, “when you were in the shower. Debris on the runways. Terminal is damaged. All flights grounded until further notice. No projected timeline for reopening yet.”

“Oh,” Dean offers, nothing in his tone to indicate what his thoughts on the subject are. “Then I guess we’ve got some time. You wanna join me for another shower and see about some lunch?”

“Yeah,” Cas agrees, his mind suddenly full of images of what Dean will look like pressed against the tile of the shower, water streaming down his body as Cas kisses him senseless. “That sounds like a pretty solid afternoon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Bottom Dean, rimming


	4. Day Three, Part One: May 10, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of things a couple of guys can do to kill time in paradise if they’re creative and well-prepared. Some of those things don’t always go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

So, okay, slight change in plans.

Turns out Dean actually does bottom.

And really, now that he thinks about it, refusing to even try it was kind of immature to begin with. He’s an adult, after all, and adults are open to new experiences. And he’s secure in his masculinity. He’s comfortable with his bisexuality. He’s not one of those toxically macho dudes who flips out at the idea of anything pink touching him. As a matter of fact, back at home he even has this lovely, silky pair of—but that’s beside the point. The point is, it only made sense to give it a shot.

Not to mention, after fucking Cas into oblivion all over the man’s hotel room, it was really only polite to let Cas return the favor. Dean’s a gentleman, after all. He’s not selfish. He has a strong sense of fairness. Hell, as a kid, he always made sure Sammy got the bigger half of whatever the hell they were supposed to share. Really, considering the filthy things he’s done to Cas over the past—how many hours has it been at this point? Fuck it, that’s immaterial—over the past however-long-its-been, he would have to be one hell of a selfish jerk not to allow a little quid pro quo.

So that’s why.

That’s why he took a cock up the ass yesterday. Those are definitely the only reasons that he let Cas work him open nice and slow. Definitely the only reasons that he whimpered and begged while the blue-eyed sex god used tongue and fingers to take him to places he never knew existed. Absolutely the only reason that he moaned like a porn star and demanded Cas fuck him deeper once the man finally got around to replacing those deft fingers and that skilled tongue with his perfect cock.

Honestly, Dean might even be able to believe that load of horseshit if not for what happened later.

He might even be able to believe it if he’d taken it up the ass two or three times instead of just the once.

The reason he’s pretty much completely unable to fool himself is the way he _sulked_ when Cas refused to top again yesterday.

It wasn’t like Cas hadn’t enjoyed himself, or so he told Dean (and if Dean’s admittedly somewhat hazy observations of Cas’s reactions while he fucked Dean were anything to go by). It wasn’t like Cas didn’t _want_ to do it again. It was that this had been Dean’s first time bottoming. Cas told him seriously that ordinarily, he would’ve worked up to it slowly, stretching Dean open over a period of days and not hours, using fingers and plugs to get Dean to the point where he could easily take a cock (and it didn’t bear mentioning what the thought of being gradually prepared to be fucked did to Dean). Since their timeline didn’t exactly leave room for that sort of thing here—and since Dean had been very much on board—Cas had gone ahead and fucked him right out of the gate, basically. What he _wouldn’t_ do is risk Dean ending up miserably sore or oversensitive from multiple rounds, and then deciding that he never wanted to bottom again.

Dean understood. He really did. And he appreciated Cas’s solicitous concern for him. Honestly, if it hadn’t been so frustrating, Dean would’ve been incredibly touched by this evidence that his no-strings-attached hook-up cared so much about making sure that Dean not only enjoyed himself but also didn’t overdo it.

But he’d wanted to overdo it. And, God help him, he’d tried pretty fucking hard to change Cas’s mind. Hard enough that now, as morning sun filtered in through the gauzy curtains, he actually felt a little humiliated at the memory of his cajoling.

It wasn’t, of course, like there had been no more sex after lunch. There’d been _plenty._ Dean had fucked Cas up against the shower wall, gotten a blowjob that might even have been better than the four am one, given one that he was extremely proud of, bent Cas over the railing and fucked him out on the balcony (only after dark, of course), and ended the day with an incredibly slow and languid make-out session. So slow and languid that in any other circumstances, the only appropriate word to describe it would be “romantic.”

But this isn’t other circumstances, and that means no romance. They agreed. Absolutely no making this into something it isn’t. Dean’s still on board with that.

Completely on board.

He doesn’t need complications. And he definitely doesn’t date guys.

So if there are isolated moments when Dean gets these little flashes of something that is dangerously closer to affection than blind lust when he looks at Cas? Well, he’s always been really good at lying to himself, and he puts those skills to generous use now. Now, don’t get him wrong, there’s still plenty of lust. Unbridled, uncontrollable, overwhelming lust.

It’s just not _blind_ lust. Because Dean is no longer just lusting mindlessly after a hot body and a gorgeous face, with zero regard to the human being within. Nope, after spending a full two days with Cas, the lust has only grown.

Of course, some of that could be chalked up to the fact that the more sex they have, the more they discover how sexually compatible they really are. The more sex they have, the better they learn their way around one another’s bodies. The more sex they have, the better they get at it—so it’s only natural that Dean actually wants Cas _more_ now than he did two days ago.

It isn’t just that, though. Dean knows perfectly well it’s not, or at least he would if he allowed himself to look directly at it.

The other piece of the puzzle is that he _likes_ Cas. Just plain old likes him. Despite himself, Dean is starting to get to know the man—not any real details of his life, of course, just… _him._ What he’s like. Who he is. Dean now knows he’s funny and sweet and entertaining and sarcastic. That he likes his showers just this side of way too hot. That he throws his head back when he laughs really hard. And that he drools a little when he sleeps really soundly. In a booty call, that last one should be a little gross or annoying. It probably shouldn’t strike Dean as adorable, or inspire feelings that suspiciously resemble tenderness.

And yet here Dean is, just shy of eleven in the morning (they were up _really_ late making out, okay?), with Cas sound asleep and drooling on his chest, pretty goddamn sure that there’s a tiny grin on his own face, because holy shit the man is adorable. His hair is a complete disaster, his cheek is smooshed, and the way he sprawls out across Dean, completely boneless and trusting, makes Dean’s arms involuntarily tighten a little around the other man. Cas shifts just slightly, snuffling a little, and then subsides again. It’s all Dean can do not to lean down and kiss his nose.

Some part of Dean actually kind of suspects that their no-identifying-information vow might have been counter-productive if they were aiming not to get attached. Because it turns out that without all the white noise of family information, jobs, and whatever else people usually tell one another when they’re dating (except he and Cas are definitely _not dating,_ okay), it’s dangerously easy to get to know who a person _is,_ at their core. Dean is starting to _know_ Cas, and that could be a problem, because so far everything he discovers only makes Dean like him more.

Lying here staring at Cas is turning out to be a bad idea (regardless of how much Dean’s enjoying it), if the feelings he’s having are any indication, so he opts to distract himself the best way he currently knows how. Reaching down, he neatly flicks the covers off of them so he can get a hand on Cas’s cock, which has clearly already noticed that it’s morning, even if its owner has not.

Without being able to reach the lube (it’s on the bedside table on Cas’s side), Dean settles for licking his own hand several times before reaching down to wrap his fingers around Cas. He starts off slow and steady, his grip a little loose. Inside of a minute, Cas is making little sleepy sounds of enjoyment, his fingers shifting restlessly against Dean’s chest. He’s still asleep, but probably not for long.

‘Not long’ ends up being about thirty seconds, and Dean knows the instant Cas really comes back to himself, because those gorgeous blue eyes suddenly reappear from under dark lashes. They are still heavy with sleep, but if the slow smile and the sudden squirm of hips are any indication, Cas doesn’t seem to mind the manner of his awakening. Really, it would’ve been hypocritical if he did, considering how he woke Dean up at four the previous morning.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Dean says, cocking half a grin down at Cas as he continues to lightly stroke his dick.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas responds, turning his head to press his lips against Dean’s chest before freezing abruptly as he discovers the tiny puddle of drool. Dean can see the few seconds of confusion and, even better, the moment in which Cas suddenly puts two and two together and realizes the source of the unexpected moisture. His face colors up adorably, and Dean’s half tempted to wait him out and see what sort of fumbling he does to excuse his drooling, but in the end he can’t stomach the idea of Cas thinking, even for a few seconds, that Dean would be disgusted or put off by anything as silly as a little drooling. He can’t really stomach the idea of Cas thinking that Dean would ever be disgusted or put off by him no matter what, and _whoa,_ what kind of a fucked up thought is _that?_ Dean opts to resolutely pretend no such thought ever happened, instead focusing on reassuring Cas.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s kinda cute, and if you think that’s bad you ought to see my brother when he sleeps. When I had to share a bed with him as a kid, I used to wake up thinking he’d wet the bed, but nope, he just drooled that much.” So okay, he’s babbling, but he had to say _something_ to make up for the fact that he actually stupidly blurted out the fact that he thought the drooling was adorable.

He’s not sure what he said that did it, but Cas’s face has melted into a soft smile. He reaches up to wipe the tiny puddle off Dean’s chest before turning and planting that kiss where he’d intended to put it in the first place. Dean actually feels himself melt a little.

Shit. This is _so_ not good.

In the meantime, his hand apparently got distracted by the drool discussion too, cause he’s stopped stroking Cas. The other man doesn’t appear to mind, rolling off Dean’s chest and stretching languidly, back arching and arms extending over his head. Dean watches, admiring every inch of that incredible body and quietly marveling at the knowledge that for this brief moment in time, this perfect creature belongs to him.

And there he goes again with thoughts that are probably just on the wrong side of inappropriate, considering. In order to make up for it, Dean rolls toward his bedside table and grabs his phone, pulling up the airport’s website. He attempts to ignore the anxious roiling in his gut as he waits for it to load, pretending that he’s just worried about having to miss more work rather than the possibility that this might be the last time he shares a bed with Cas. He’s not particularly surprised to discover that the airport is still closed, and he resolutely stuffs down the trickle of relief that eases his tight muscles.

Cas has clearly noticed Dean’s tension and its resolution, because when Dean rolls onto his back once more, Cas is watching him with a raised brow.

Dean jerks a little, not surprised so much as guilty for his barely-acknowledged feelings, knowing that even if he doesn’t admit it, he’s violating the spirit of their agreement.

“Airport’s still closed,” he tells Cas, aiming for neutrality and pleased to discover that he succeeds admirably.

“Mmmm.” Cas says noncommittally, before grabbing his own phone. “I’ll need to call work. I have to get someone to cover my—“ he cuts off, grimacing apologetically at Dean. “Shit. Sorry. Almost broke our cardinal rule.”

Dean is too relieved at the discovery that maybe Cas is getting a little too comfortable with him right back to give the guy shit for his near slip-up.

“It’s cool,” Dean tells him, waving a hand dismissively, “you caught it in time.” This is when it occurs to him that maybe he’s just been _too_ blasé about it, considering that he was the one who insisted upon nothing personal or identifying in the first place. Hell, he was the guy who was perfectly willing to strap in for a full day of sex with someone whose first name he had no intention of learning. So his sudden about face is probably kind of damning. To cover up for it, he clears his throat and nods toward the window. “Listen, what do you say about getting out of here for a couple hours? Not that I haven’t enjoyed staying in,” he adds, skating a hand down Cas’s bare chest lightly, “but I’m starting to get a serious case of cabin fever. We could wander around the island, check out some of the damage, maybe go find a diner or something? Shit, are there even diners here?”

Since Sam and Jess are all obsessed with being “green,” they picked St. John for their wedding. Dean tuned out most of what they told him about its reputation for being eco-focused, but he gathered enough to be unsure of whether the island will have anything resembling a greasy spoon.

Cas frowns thoughtfully. “Beats me, but doesn’t the resort have like eight different restaurants anyway?”

Dean shrugs. “Pretty sure, but I’m also pretty sure most of them are too far up on the swank-o-meter to fulfill my craving for greasy diner food.”

Cas’s lips are twitching violently when Dean glances over at him, and he knits his brow, trying to figure out what he said that was so amusing. After a minute, Cas’s face smooths out enough for him to speak. “You’ll, uh, have to give me the run-down on the workings of the swank-o-meter, I’m not familiar with it.” Dean gives him a slightly narrow look that Cas pretends not to notice as he goes on. “In any case, the concierge should know whether there’s any place that fits the bill, but first I should head back to my room to get dressed and give work a call. Wanna meet me in the lobby in half an hour?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean tells Cas, watching him don his clothes and trying to ignore the fact that he actually feels a little crestfallen at having to separate from him, even for thirty fucking minutes. Then Dean’s suddenly too busy being kissed goodbye to worry about inconvenient emotions. Despite the fact that he’s pretty sure goodbye kisses are a little too couple-ish to fit neatly into their agreement, Dean dedicates himself thoroughly to the kiss. When Cas pulls back, there’s a split second in which Dean can see the moment of revelation on his face when he realizes what he just did. Almost immediately, long before Dean can get a read on how Cas actually feels about the kiss (let alone the fact that Dean enthusiastically kissed back), the other man’s face shuts down, going smooth and unreadable as he turns to slide his shoes on.

“Thirty minutes, then?” Dean says, caught between his certainty that breaking the awkward post-kiss silence was necessary and annoyance with himself for choosing to break it by demanding reassurance that Cas will indeed be in the lobby in half an hour.

Cas turns back to Dean, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he smiles a little. “Yep. It’s a—“ he cuts himself off abruptly, and although both of them know what he was about to say, by mutual silent agreement they pretend like nothing happened “—I’ll see you then,” Cas finishes lamely.

“Don’t jerk off without me,” Dean says, successfully breaking the tension, “I’ve got too many plans for that cock for you to go wasting an orgasm on the shower wall.”

Cas gifts him with that delicious laugh, the one that has him throwing his head back, and Dean simply watches, pretty sure there’s a soft smile on his face but totally unable to do anything about it. “Duly noted. Aye aye, Captain,” Cas tells him, then sketches a crisp salute, earning a chuckle from Dean. He sort of thinks there’s a split-second hesitation just before Cas turns to the door, as if he’s trying to figure out how to say goodbye, or maybe doesn’t want to leave, but in the end he decides he must have been imagining it.

The door clicks shut quietly in Cas’s wake, and suddenly the hotel room feels a lot bigger and colder. In the desperate effort not to think about why that’s so, Dean almost flings himself off the bed to head for the shower.

~*~

After showering, talking to Bobby and arguing with an airline representative who’s a lot less accommodating than the first one he talked to, Dean’s actually a few minutes late to get to the lobby. He doesn’t immediately see Cas, which wouldn’t be a big deal if Dean were a normal human being. As it stands, he’s just starting to convince himself that after getting back to his room, Cas must have realized this whole situation was lunacy and now has no intention of meeting Dean when he spots the man in question, leaning against a pillar and talking animatedly on the phone.

Dean wonders if he should wait off to one side while Cas finishes his conversation, has even decided that’s exactly what he’s going to do when he finds that his feet are carrying him directly over to Cas without his permission. Traitors. Dean notices that Cas has what looks a bit like a gym bag hanging over his shoulder for some reason, but his curiosity about it is forgotten a second later. Cas’s face absolutely lights up when he spots Dean, who discovers at the sight that his stomach is capable of doing some impressively gymnastic flip-flops. He only dimly registers the words Cas speaks into the phone.

“Yeah, I know, I—listen, Gabriel? I gotta go. I’m—for God’s sake, Gabe, nobody. And even if there were, it still wouldn’t be any of your business. I’ll call—yeah. Don’t you dare. I won’t answer if you do. Don’t make me change my number again, or this time I won’t give in and let you have the new number. …yeah, that’s what I thought. Bye.”

Dean would likely find the expression of half-amused irritation on Cas’s face entertaining, but for the fact that he’s pretty sure Cas just denied Dean’s very existence to whoever Gabriel is.

That shouldn’t sting. After all, they don’t even know each other’s last names. Don’t know anything about one another. There are absolutely no strings attached here. They’re going to go their separate ways forever as soon as the airport opens. Why the hell should Cas be telling anybody in his life anything about Dean?

He shouldn’t, obviously, so Dean forces down the slightly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and smiles warmly at Cas, who is rolling his eyes.

“Sorry about that,” Cas says, smiling dryly, “if I don’t answer the phone when he calls he has the tendency to—“ he stops himself, suddenly realizing that he was starting to give out information that’s probably taboo, and instead clears his throat a little self-consciously.

“No problem,” Dean tells him easily, not wanting Cas to feel awkward and kind of liking the fact that the man seems to find it difficult not to share information with him.

“Anyway,” Cas says, regaining his composure, “there aren’t any diners but there is a promising-sounding bar and grill on the other end of the island. We’d have to drive, but I figure we could go check out some of the beaches down that end after we ate, if you wanted.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean agrees readily, “your rental or mine?”

~*~

They take Cas’s car in the end, at least a little bit because Dean tries to spend the minimum amount of time necessary behind the wheel of any car that isn’t his beloved Impala. On a logical level he knows she’s a non-sentient object, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from feeling a little like he’s cheating whenever he has to drive other cars. He doesn’t tell Cas this, of course, but does grumble a little about the lack of classic cars available with rental car companies.

What eventually shuts him up isn’t the sense that he’s back to walking the precipice of oversharing (even though it’s possible that he is, honestly he’s lost any sense of what’s acceptable), it’s the island itself. It’s clear that over the past two days, clean-up efforts have been made, but the amount of destruction that remains is still pretty impressive. In between rounds yesterday evening, Cas checked the weather on his phone and reported that the National Weather Service was saying Hurricane Abby had been either a strong Category 1 or a weak Category 2 at landfall. Dean knew enough about hurricanes to be aware that they went up to Category 5, but that was the extent of his education. He and Cas had been pretty floored to discover that Abby had been fairly unimpressive, as hurricanes went, given the incredible power of what they’d witnessed on the beach.

Most of the debris has been cleared from the larger roadways, but it’s quite clear that the island is still a mess. If this is the destruction a comparatively wimpy hurricane can unleash, Dean is developing a whole new respect for Mother Nature. He’d spent the first few days here a little wistful about his inland life (it’s hard not to fall in love with the sound of the ocean and the sight of gorgeous white beaches and brilliant blue water), but now he’s feeling pretty damn pleased to live in South Dakota.

The bar and grill Cas picked out turns out to be pretty great, even if it does have a weird name (seriously, who decided to call their bar ‘Skinny Legs?’) and Dean is more than happy with his bacon cheeseburger. They spend half the meal arguing over the best pizza the country has to offer (Chicago style deep-dish will always be Dean’s favorite, while Cas favors the greasy oversized shoe-leather that New York has the temerity to call pizza). The banter is comfortable and easy, and when Cas’s hand comes to rest on Dean’s knee, it feels so fucking natural that he has no desire to remove it, even though he probably should.

At Cas’s suggestion, they split a piece of pie after lunch (again, Dean doesn’t mention the fact that he does _not_ share pie under ordinary circumstances, mostly because he’s too busy being delighted that Cas likes pie). There’s a brief weird moment when they get the bill, because both of them are determined to pay for lunch. In the end they agree to go Dutch, which is probably the safest option anyway since this is Not A Date.

Dean has to force himself not to sneak a peek at Cas’s receipt—not cause he has any desire to jack his credit card number, but because he knows from his own receipt that Cas’s full name is on there. And he could easily look. Cas has carelessly left the receipt lying on the table, as if in invitation. Somehow he manages to restrain himself. After all, they’ve agreed that once they’re able to get off the island, this is over, and Dean refuses to be the creeper who develops an obsession with his three-night stand.

Cas finally tucks away his copy of the receipt, but when Dean moves to get up, Cas stops him with a hand on his elbow. Dean obligingly settles back into his seat, shooting the other man an inquiring look. Cas leans a little closer, and Dean finds himself mirroring the gesture, as if he’s about to be told a juicy secret.

“So, Dean,” Cas says, and something about the way his voice has deepened causes a twist of heat low in Dean’s belly, “how are you feeling?”

Dean blinks, somewhat surprised by the mundane question, considering the tone of voice it was spoken in, “Uh, fine? Full, I gue—“

Cas cuts him off, eyes dark and lips quirking upward in quiet amusement, “No, Dean. How are you _feeling?”_

Dean finally realizes exactly what he’s asking. Clearing his throat a little to cover up his mild embarrassment over his own obliviousness, he shoots Cas a very slow smile that he infuses with invitation. “Never better, now that you mention it. Not a single complaint.”

“No…soreness?” Cas inquires with practiced innocence, “I know your workout yesterday included some…new muscle groups,” he adds, as the waitress pauses to refill his iced tea. Dean has to bury his face in his coke so he doesn’t snort loudly. Yeah, that’s one way to put it.

“None at all. You must’ve been a great, uh, spotter. Did a real good job making sure I didn’t overdo it.” Shit, is he pouting? Something about the slight quiver of Cas’s lips suggests to Dean that, yeah, he’s pouting. Okay, he might still be sulking a little about Cas’s oversolicitousness.

“In that case,” Cas says, “I think you’re probably safe to try again. Maybe even up the intensity a lit—whoa!”

Cas had been reaching for his newly refilled iced tea but his hand never gets there, as Dean seizes it and hauls him out to the parking lot. Cas laughs the whole way to the car but obligingly gets behind the wheel. “So eager,” he teases as he starts the car up. It would be absurd for Dean to deny it, and honestly, he doesn’t actually feel especially embarrassed about the whole thing. Yeah, he’s all about taking it up the ass again. That shit felt _good,_ and he only has a limited time with Cas in which to take advantage of the opportunity. He’s not sold on bottoming for anyone else, especially any random hook-up (which is ironic as hell, for obvious reasons), so he feels like he’s on borrowed time to explore this new and delightful…workout.

It’s not until they’re back on the resort grounds that Dean realizes Cas isn’t heading back to the main hotel. When he shoots a questioning look at the man, he gets a cryptic smile in response. Dean’s not usually big on surprises, but he lets it be and allows Cas to park the car in a tiny, deserted parking lot in an area of the resort Dean hasn’t seen yet.

“This beach,” Cas says, pointing a hundred yards in front of them where a beautiful sandy strip edges the surf, “is where my sister’s wedding was supposed to be, before the weather decided not to cooperate. It’s private. The resort rents it out for events, but otherwise it’s not open to the public. And there’s no event today,” he adds, raising a single brow at Dean.

“Oh my God,” Dean says, grinning, “sex on the beach? Dude, could you be any more of a romance novel wannabe?” He’s teasing, yeah, but he’s also getting out of the car, so Cas knows he’s on board.

“Hey, I thought this was a week for trying new things, but if you’d rather be boring and predictable…” Cas says as he climbs out, grabbing the gym bag from the back seat before he starts heading toward the beach. Dean frowns at the bag, then at Cas, then back as he follows. A second later, it clicks.

“Holy shit, you _planned this!”_ The incredibly smug smile Cas sends him confirms these suspicions, and Dean shakes his head in amazement. “You’re downright diabolical, man,” Dean tells him, then yelps—honest-to-God _yelps—_ as Cas, with the same incredibly fast reflexes that have saved Dean twice, suddenly pivots, grabs his arms and jacks him up against a palm tree.

Just as quickly, there are lips at his throat, and Dean lets his head fall back, groaning a little as the flat of Cas’s tongue drags up his neck. Jesus fucking Christ, the man is _fast._

“Oh, Dean,” the low growl vibrating against Dean’s throat goes straight to his groin, “you just have no _idea._ Yet. But you will, now that I know I’m not likely to break you.”

That almost sounds more like a threat than a promise, which probably shouldn’t make Dean’s knees weak in all the right ways, but fuck it. He slides his arms around Cas’s neck, reveling in the feel of that strong body plastered against him. Cas nuzzles into the crook of Dean’s neck a little more closely and _bites._ It’s a damn good thing the beach is both private and deserted, because Dean’s moan is _not_ quiet in the several seconds before Cas silences it with a searing kiss.

Five hazy minutes later, Dean finds himself watching a little dumbly as Cas pulls a couple of mammoth beach towels out of his bag and spreads them out ten yards above the water line. One of these days he’s going to figure out what the fuck it is about Cas’s kisses that completely short-circuits his brain. Maybe the guy’s an alien who can excrete small amounts of some mind-addling drug in his saliva. Maybe he’s just the most amazingly skilled kisser Dean’s ever encountered. Either way, Dean’s not complaining—mostly because he can’t actually speak after being so thoroughly kissed. Cas goes to work on Dean’s clothes next, and it’s a good thing he doesn’t seem to want help, because Dean’s still trying to get his wits back about him.

Honestly, the day’s a little hot for his taste, and the sand feels just this side of scalding, but the breeze off the water is nice, and Dean figures he can manage the beating sun long enough for a quickie, at least. He toes off his flip flops while Cas wrestles him out of his shirt.

That’s pretty much the last thing that actually goes smoothly.

Cas goes to pull down Dean’s board shorts just as Dean is trying to pull Cas’s shirt off over his head, and it’s honestly the damnedest thing, because up till now the smoothness with which they’ve removed one another’s clothes over the last couple days has been practically poetic. It’s only now, under the hot sun with acres of burning sand beneath them that this effortless ease fails them.

After the fact, neither of them will be able to figure out exactly how it happened, but somehow Cas’s head and one arm end up stuck in his shirt, and when Dean tries to help him out of it, he trips over the shorts that only made it halfway down his calves. Dean staggers, tries to catch himself, overbalances, and topples right into Cas, who obviously doesn’t see him coming (what with being non-sexily blindfolded by his own shirt) and goes down like a ton of bricks.

The best thing that can be said of their landing is that nobody breaks anything, although Cas does get stabbed in the knee by a particularly pointy seashell (Dean will manage to convince him in a couple hours that he’s not going to get tetanus) and Dean somehow ends up with an earful of sand, which is even more disgusting than it sounds. Cas still hasn’t managed to escape his shirt by the time Dean’s done shaking his head and making exaggerated gagging noises, so Dean helps him out.

Between the two of them, they manage to free Cas without any further bodily injury. The only casualty is the shirt itself. Panting slightly, Dean frowns at the massive rip.

“Shit, dude, I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t think it’s gonna make it.”

“Fuck it,” Cas says succinctly, “it tried to kill us both. Good riddance. It was self-defense. No jury of your peers would convict you.”

Dean is still laughing when Cas seizes the shirt from him, tosses it over one shoulder, then yanks Dean’s shorts the rest of the way off. Dean’s on board with getting things back on track, so he goes to work on Cas’s shorts next. He’s about to pull them down when he’s brought up short.

“Oh, shit! Cas, you’re bleeding! Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because my shirt was trying to strangle me at the time, I was a little busy. What the hell got me?”

“Looks like a seashell. Dude, are you okay? We can go back to the hotel and get you cleaned up.”

Cas examines the wound, then shrugs a little. “Nah, it’s not that bad, and I put way too much diabolical planning into this to throw in the towel that easy.”

Dean twitches a little. “Towel puns? Fuck, man, you didn’t tell me you had a case of the puns. I don’t fuck people who pu—“

He never gets the rest of the snark out, because Cas has neatly rolled atop him, flattening him onto his back.

It would be sexy as hell, except all of their flailing ended up covering the towel in a thick layer of sand, so now there’s sand riding up Dean’s ass crack, and it’s at least as unsexy as it sounds. Grimacing, Dean tries to ignore it, returning the kiss. He’s actually starting to get into it, too, when a gust of wind blows the corner of the towel up, showering their faces in a fine layer of sand.

They break apart in surprise, Cas yelping and swiping at one of his eyes while Dean breaks into a sneezing fit, pretty sure he’s got sand in his fucking sinus. By the time Dean’s stopped sneezing, Cas is digging around in the gym bag, peering inside with his one good eye. Dean crawls over to offer the use of both of his eyes, but Cas triumphantly pulls a tiny bottle out of the bag before he can speak. Dean squints at it, astonished to discover that it’s eye drops.

“You’re telling me you brought fucking _eye drops_ with you when you planned out fucking me on the beach? What _are_ you, man? What the hell else do you have tucked in that bag?”

“That’s need to know,” Cas informs him, shifty-eyed, then adds defensively, “I was a boy scout, okay?! I like to be prepared.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. You want some help putting those in?”

“No, I got it.”

Dean focuses on getting Cas’s shorts off while Cas take care of washing the sand out of his own eye, and two minutes later they’re both reasonably functional human beings again.

Dean sort of thinks about suggesting that they give up the ghost and go back to the hotel, but there’s a glint of steel determination in Cas’s eye that shuts him up.

“Okay,” Cas says, “Take four. Once more, with feeling.” He must’ve taken the opportunity while he was already rifling around in the bag to grab the lube, because suddenly it’s in his hand. He swats Dean’s hip with his free hand, urging him to flip over. “I think if you get on your hands and knees it’ll be—yeah, just like—okay, wait a sec, your ass is covered in sand, just let me…”

Dean waits obligingly as Cas tries to swipe all the sand off his ass, grimacing and shifting uncomfortably as still more sand digs uncomfortably into his knees and palms. “Dude, are you really sure you—“

 _“Yes,”_ Cas tells him, a hint of desperation starting to sound in his voice, as if he’s starting to realize that this whole idea is very much not all it’s cracked up to be, but still determined to see it through.

“Okay, just make sure you get the sand off your hand before you—“

“Shit,” Cas says, very quietly, and Dean’s pretty sure he knows why. He rolls back up to his knees and turns around to see Cas, staring in horror at his cock, which is coated in lube that looks suspiciously gritty.

“Oh, no,” Dean says, because this is absolutely the last straw, “You are not getting that thing anywhere _near_ my ass without a shower.”

Cas scowls at his own hand, then his cock, and Dean’s pretty sure he gets the sequence of events. Cas swiped the sand off Dean’s ass, then failed to realize that his hand was now covered in sand until after he’d already poured lube into his palm and applied it to his cock. Now, of course, it’s too late. Boy scout or no, Dean doubts Cas thought to bring enough extra towels to get all the sand off them and start fresh. Honestly, even if he did, Dean’s putting the kibosh on this. This is a lot of things, but sexy is decidedly not one of them.

“Cas,” he says, a little more gently, because the poor guy was clearly proud of his plan, “this was a great idea, but—“

“Some things,” Cas interrupts, an air of long-suffering resignation about him, “are better in theory than in execution. This is _terrible,_ isn’t it? Let’s go find a shower and never come anywhere near sand ever again.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up so we can get out of here.” Dean digs through the gym bag and comes up with a little pack of wet wipes (holy shit, Cas really _was_ a boy scout, wasn’t he?). It’s nowhere near enough to really clean them up, but it’ll at least get Cas’s poor cock free of sandy lube so he can put his shorts back on.

Dean is as gentle as he can be, and by this point Cas’s erection is long gone anyway. “Fucking _sand,”_ Cas says, venomously kicking at the beach. Dean refrains from telling him that he can’t hurt the sand by kicking it, opting instead to give Cas a one-armed hug in consolation.

The beach has apparently decided they’ve suffered enough at this point, because they manage to get their shorts on without further incident. Cas takes one look at the pair of sand-covered, rumpled beach towels and then just shakes his head. “Hell with it. Let the hotel charge me for them.”

“Living dangerously,” Dean compliments, “very sexy. Come on, if I don’t get this sand off me in the next fifteen minutes I’m going to lose my mind.”

“You know,” Cas says a few minutes later, as the rental car speeds back toward the hotel, “I used to really enjoy Sex on the Beach. The drink, I mean,” he adds as Dean opens his mouth in confusion, “but now I think it’s false advertising.”

“Ought to be half a cup of sand with a splash of orange juice,” Dean agrees dryly.

“Just between you and me,” Cas says, a pained look on his face.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve always kind of hated the beach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Sex on a beach (not the drink)


	5. Day Three, Part Two: May 10, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is just full of surprises. Or maybe Dean is. It depends on whose perspective you’re considering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

There ends up being surprisingly little conversation in the elevator on the way up to Dean’s room. Both men are understandably subdued after their experience on the beach but there’s also an unspoken air of fierce determination as they ride up. Cas clutches the handles of his duffle bag tightly, the tendons in his arm standing out sharply in evidence of his death grip, and Dean can guess what he’s thinking. The beach sex fiasco was supposed to be hot. Really hot. Not just burning sand scalding the bottoms of their feet and mid-day sun beating down on them with a complete lack of mercy hot, but like, _hot._ It was supposed to be the kind of thing that would inspire filthy daydreams for years to come, the kind of experience that would make Dean get hard just thinking about it after the fact. Instead, it got completely and totally ruined by sand in places it has no business being.

This absolute ruination of Cas’s carefully-crafted beach sex plan is probably why, the second the shower is adjusted to a comfortable temperature, Dean finds himself being unceremoniously pushed past the curtain by insistent hands. He barely gets his feet out of his shorts in time to avoid tripping, and he’s only under the spray for like, half a second before Cas is stepping in behind him.

Shower sex is complicated. It always is. There’s just no way around it. This isn’t shower sex though. This is a shower as a very necessary prelude to sex, and as such, Dean expects it to be pretty perfunctory. He’s anticipating a quick rinse before getting down to business, nothing more.

It’s not what he gets.

Cas gives Dean a meager ten seconds to luxuriate under the marvelous water pressure (thankfully it’s enough time to rinse the bulk of the sand off of them both), and then it’s on. Cas backs him up against the shower wall, kissing him with a ferocity that is almost possessive (almost, Dean maintains, because there’s no possible way Cas can be feeling anything even approaching possessiveness towards Dean) and destroying what remains of his ability to think clearly.

“I hope you’re not disappointed,” Cas says apologetically. “The beach thing was supposed to be…not that.”

“No, it’s good,” Dean affirms breathlessly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me.” He’s being cheeky and he knows it, but the memory of how wantonly he begged Cas to fuck him is too fresh in his mind, and he’d rather start this encounter off on somewhat more equal footing.

Cas responds with a knee between Dean’s thighs, grinding his hip against Dean’s already hardening cock. The shower walls echo Dean’s moan back at him, amplifying the admittedly needy noise until it sounds much louder than it actually was, and Cas huffs a satisfied laugh against Dean’s lips as he leans in for another kiss.

“I think I can manage that,” Cas tells him. “Turn around.” There’s a commanding note to Cas’s tone, one that says he’s entirely certain he’ll be obeyed.

He’s not wrong.

Dean spins to face the wall as fast as is advisable on the slick floor of the shower, maybe even a little faster, but he avoids slipping. Wouldn’t that just be perfect? Escape the suffering that could have come from disastrous beach sex only to be brought low by a slippery shower? Trade sandpaper dick for a vacation concussion? Brutal.

In any case, Dean gets himself turned around and no sooner is he facing the wet tile with the showerhead spraying hot down his side than Cas is pressed up firmly behind him, sliding his knee back between Dean’s legs and forcing them wider. His chest presses against Dean’s back, positioning his face so he can murmur in Dean’s ear.

“I’m still gonna open you up nice and slow,” he promises. “Not because I’m afraid of hurting you. Not this time. I’m gonna do it because I wanna hear you come apart before I fuck you.” While he’s speaking, he slides a hand between them to nudge at Dean’s hole, pressing the pad of a single finger against the tight pucker.  If Dean had any fantasies about maintaining his composure during this whole endeavor, they go right out the window the second Cas teases at entry. “Let’s see if I can make you beg for my cock like you did last time.”

Dean should _not_ be turned on by this. No fucking way. He should be resolutely ashamed at the fact that he begged for it in the first place. He should be taking mature and reasonable steps to make sure it doesn’t happen again. His first reaction should not be an urge to affirm verbally that he will most certainly beg if that’s what Cas wants him to do. He shouldn’t love the fact that Cas has him trapped against the cool tile of the hotel’s shower with his not-inconsiderable strength, promising a long afternoon of torturously slow foreplay followed by getting his brains fucked out. None of this should be appealing to Dean, but here he is, so hard it hurts, leaking precome against the shower wall and hoping, praying, that Cas will keep his word on every single detail because as far as Dean’s concerned, that sounds like motherfucking perfection.

He doesn’t say any of this out loud, of course. That would be too much. It’s one thing to admit to himself that he kinda liked being made to beg for it before. It’s a totally different matter to tell Cas that being manhandled against the wall is possibly the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him, and that includes the time that Rhonda Hurley convinced him to parade around in that little pink number. Come to think of it, maybe if he _did_ tell Cas that, they could combine the hotness that is Cas manhandling him with the tantalizing slide of satin and lace and….no! Shit! Dean cannot afford to let his brain run away with him like this. He gets to fuck Cas just in the here and now, just until the airport opens again. He can’t be making any kind of plans for what might come after. It’s completely against the rules.

Dean is saved from any further mental battles by the sound of a bottle cap clicking open. Cas, the sneaky bastard, must have grabbed the lube out of his beach-sex tool kit and brought it into the shower with them. Soon there’s a slick fingertip pushing between his cheeks, sliding into his ass without any urgency, and it’s lucky that Cas has him pressed against the wall because even just that is almost enough to turn Dean boneless.

“So responsive,” Cas praises. “I bet you never thought you’d like it this much. See what happens when you open your mind to new experiences?”

“Jesus, Cas. You can’t just say shit like that!” Dean’s committed to at least maintaining the illusion of stoicism, but the words nearly squeak out of his mouth and he’s sure in that moment that the illusion is completely shattered. Cas has him figured out, and there’s no point in pretending (but he’s probably going to keep trying anyway).

Cas kisses the back of his neck. “Why not?” His other hand slides over Dean’s hip, trailing a single finger down the length of Dean’s achingly hard cock. It twitches with the new attention, and as Cas leans in, Dean can feel the jut of a dick against his ass. “You’re clearly enjoying it. I’m enjoying you enjoying it.”

“Yeah,” Dean admits. “But, just…Jesus!” He cuts off with a yelp as Cas slides a second finger in beside the first, pushing and twisting so slowly that the stretch is possibly the most torturously pleasurable thing he can remember experiencing. Admittedly, his recall is a bit shot right now, but nothing better comes to mind.

Understandably, Dean stops trying to argue at this point and gives himself over completely to the absurd amounts of pleasure he’s being subjected to. Pressed up against the shower wall with two slick fingers sliding into his ass, stretching him open with no haste or hurry, he’s really got nothing to complain about. Cas murmurs praise in his ear, his breath just as hot as the water that courses over them, and Dean loses all track of time. It could be mere seconds before Cas pulls his fingers out, leaving Dean bemoaning the emptiness, or it could be hours. In a hotel this size, there’s no cooling of the water to remind them to get out of the shower, so he really doesn’t know.

He also doesn’t care.

Eventually though, Cas does decide he’s had enough. He was probably ready long ago, realistically. The burning stretch that accompanied the first gentle push of Cas’s fingers has long since faded away, replaced by pure pleasure. Cas did promise he was going to drag it out just to hear Dean fall apart, so that isn’t really unexpected.

What does catch Dean off guard, though, is that once they’re out of the shower and toweled off, Cas comes at him with a truly startling ferocity. He crowds up in his space and backs him toward the bed, clutching his hips and kissing the breath right out of his lungs, and even if Dean had it in him to protest he’d be too wrapped up in the intensity of the moment to bother. He tumbles gracelessly onto his back on the bed and barely has time to get his bearings before Cas is crawling toward him, draping himself over Dean as he kisses his way up the freckled body beneath him.

Dean will forever deny the way he melts when Cas’s lips press to his own, driving all conscious thought from his mind and rendering his limbs pliant and useless. He won’t admit how much those kisses affect him. He could never let Cas know the power he has over Dean, how easy it is to let himself submit to this thing he swore he’d never do, just because Cas promised to make it good. And ye gods, does he deliver. Cas fumbles with a condom and presses in slowly, and all Dean can do is gasp, mouth hanging open in silent awe as Cas fills him up, stretches him open and makes him feel so good he’s practically seeing stars.

He probably doesn’t need to tell Cas this in words, come to think of it, because it’s likely written all over his face.

When Cas starts to move, it’s a whole other level of pleasure. Their bodies rock together like they were made to fit like this, tiny noises drifting from Dean’s lips with each gentle thrust. Cas holds himself up on one arm, letting the other roam over Dean’s body, tracing the topography of his muscles with reverent fingertips, teasing nipples, touching just to touch. It’s slow and tender, just a little too much like sex that means something.  Dean is almost starting to wonder where that ferocity went when Cas suddenly thrusts in harder, sharper, punching a filthy moan out right from Dean’s gut, and then it’s not tender at all. It’s like Cas was waiting just long enough for Dean to adjust to the girth of his cock, and then all bets are off.

“Fuck!” Dean groans, fingers tightening in the sheets. Cas drives into him, hips snapping forward with enough force that Dean feels himself inching up the bed. His back arches, his legs wrap around Cas’s hips to draw him close, and Dean finds himself wondering how he could ever have thought he didn’t want this.

Cas grabs his wrists, first one and then the other, pressing them into the mattress above his head. Dean wriggles, tugging at Cas’s grip half-heartedly, but he’s well and truly trapped. He could maybe wrest his hands free if he really committed to it, but it occurs to Dean somewhat hazily that he doesn’t actually want to get free. He groans, finding himself immeasurably turned on by his current predicament, and cranes his neck up to invite Cas to kiss him breathless again. Cas deigns to comply, kissing Dean wet and messy as he fucks him into the mattress.

Maybe, just maybe, if Dean wasn’t so wrapped up in the overwhelming wealth of sensations that are currently making his nerves sing, he’d have the presence of mind to at least _try_ to pretend that he doesn’t get such a filthy thrill from Cas manhandling him and pinning him down. He’d be able to pretend that he didn’t get even harder than he thought possible just from the firm grip bearing down on his wrists. And he’d be able to convince himself that the fact that he’s hurtling towards what promises to be a truly mind-blowing orgasm at breakneck speed has nothing at all to do with the fact that Cas is growling filthy promises in his ear, his hot breath tickling Dean’s throat and giving him all sorts of terrible ideas.

Unfortunately, he _is_ wrapped up in the intensity of it all, so he’s not able to pretend well enough to convince himself, let alone Cas. He might as well be waiving a rainbow banner that loudly proclaims how much he’s getting off on it for all the subtlety he manages. His eyes slip shut as he throws his head back and moans out his pleasure, a litany of curses and whimpers and _fuck yes oh fuck oh fuck Cas just like that_ , words so needy and desperate he can barely believe they’re coming from his own mouth. Cas eats them up like candy, giving him everything he begs for, riding him hard and pinning him down and biting little red marks into his shoulder and throat.

Neither of them has a free hand for Dean’s cock, but it turns out that doesn’t matter so much. The friction of their bodies, slick with the precome that’s steadily leaking out of Dean’s dick and the sweat between them is enough to encourage the slide of skin on skin, and with the way Cas is fucking him mercilessly and the unexpectedly powerful thrill of being pinned down, Dean doesn’t last long at all. One minute he’s trying to deny to himself how desperately _hot_ the entire experience is, just so he can maintain that he’s not the kind of guy who likes to get manhandled, and the next he’s crying out, arching into Cas’s touch as he comes hot and messy between them.

Cas laughs darkly, the growl of it ringing in Dean’s ear as he shudders through the aftershocks. His toes are literally curling, a thing he thought was just some kind of exaggerated euphemism.  Turns out that no, it’s real. Get fucked hard enough and you can actually have a toe-curling orgasm. Mark that one down in the trivia book. In any case, Cas doesn’t seem inclined to let go or let up, so even though Dean is fucked nearly insensible and definitely oversensitive, he clings to Cas with his legs and whimpers happily while this blue-eyed sex god inches closer and closer to coming in his ass.

Now that Dean is spent, Cas slows down a little. Maybe he wants to drag it out or maybe he’s worried about hurting his partner. Dean can’t find the words to ask. Either way it feels good—too good to complain. It doesn’t matter if Cas is a long way off from taking his pleasure out of Dean or if he’s teetering on the precipice, because Dean’s perfectly happy where he is.

Cas, as it happens, is not a long way off. He’s apparently quite close, if the way his hips break rhythm is to be believed. His breath comes in ragged gasps and his filthy growls are growing rougher by the moment. It’s only a matter of time before he reaches climax too. Dean wants him to get there, wants Cas to enjoy himself as much as Dean did. If he could move anything other than his legs he’d try to help the process along, but other than clinging to Cas and rocking his hips up to meet each thrust, there doesn’t seem to be much he can do.

It’s enough.

Cas goes rigid above Dean, mouth falling open silently as the pleasure washes over him. His last few thrusts are stilted, jerky things, wringing the last drops of pleasure that he can get out of the encounter. Cas rolls just slightly to the side as he lets himself collapse, releasing Dean’s wrists as he slumps to the bed, contentment on his face.

Dean stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, too dizzy and satisfied to push himself towards any kind of conversation, and for the moment, Cas seems to either share the sentiment or at least lack any desire to intrude on the comfortable silence. There’s a few points of contact between them, shoulders and hips, and one of Cas’s hands splays across Dean’s belly, smearing the mess of come left behind.

“So you’re just full of surprises,” Cas prods softly, when the ragged pace of their breathing has slowed to something more manageable.

“Me? I’m not the one who pinned you to the bed and had my way with you,” Dean counters, but his heart isn’t in it. He knows he’s caught out, knows he never had a chance of denying it.

“No, but I’m not the one got off on being held down like that.”

“Touché,” Dean acknowledges. “I guess there’s no point in denying it.”

“None whatsoever.” Cas shakes his head.

“Well in that case, maybe next time you wanna try tying me up with the sash off that bathrobe in the closet or something?” Dean manages to sound appropriately nonchalant, his words quiet enough that it almost seems like he’s trying to let them slip by unnoticed. “Might be fun.”

Cas’s replying laugh is not quiet at all, booming in the stillness of the room. It’s mirthful and a little devious when it reaches Dean’s ears, and it’s all the confirmation Dean needs to know he’s in big, _big_ trouble.

“I think I can do you one better than that,” Cas tells him. “We’re going to have to go back to my room at some point anyway. Remind me when we get there.” Dean is curious, considering asking further questions, but his stomach rumbles aggressively.

“After dinner?” he suggests.

“After dinner,” Cas agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** A little light bondage, Bottom!Dean


	6. Day Four: May 11, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They signed on for sex. They signed on for fun. They signed on for casual. No strings, no identifying details, no feelings.
> 
> And they're both still totally okay with that.
> 
> Really, they are.
> 
> Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

It was a good plan, born of the best intentions, but it was apparently not to be.

Castiel would have loved to cap off the evening with Dean in handcuffs, his perfect ass in the air while Cas made him feel so good he nearly forgot his own name. Unfortunately, by the time they actually extricated themselves from the bed to order room service, both men had worked up a larger than usual appetite, and decided that dinner should come with dessert. Dean ordered pie again, which Castiel chose not to comment on because it felt distinctly like the kind of detail that would breach their “no identifying information, nothing about our real lives” rule. Castiel himself was drawn in by the chocolate mousse cake, and when it arrived, the thing was covered in a far larger portion of chocolate sauce than is usually called for as a garnish. And of course, being that they only dressed in bathrobes to allow the hotel employee to deliver their food, by the time they actually got to _eating_ the desserts they were pretty much naked again. Naturally, one thing led to another, and most of that chocolate sauce ended up on various parts of Dean’s body, which Castiel then just _had_ to lick off of him, and they never did end up migrating two floors away to Castiel’s room. He still hasn’t actually explained to Dean what it is he has in his luggage that’s a step up from being bound in a bathrobe tie, but it’s there waiting for them.

When he wakes this morning, Dean is still contentedly snoozing with his arms wrapped around Cas’s waist. There’s a marked increase in the amount of sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains today, much less of the hazy gray that set the tone for their previous mornings, and it gives Castiel the impression that their time together is probably coming to a close. He shouldn’t be feeling any kind of way about that, but the pit that opens up in his stomach at the mere thought of going home and never setting eyes on Dean again is persistent, and he’s having a very, very hard time denying that he’s allowed himself to get attached. Dean probably hasn’t, of course. He’s probably used to doing things casually. He’s probably just fine with the knowledge that in the next day or so, he’ll get on a plane and fly right out of Castiel’s life.

That’s what they wanted though, right? A little vacation sex, a distraction while they waited for the airport to open again? Something sexy to fixate on while they remained trapped in paradise? There’s no point in being upset about it. Cas was the one who said his life was too busy for any kind of attachments, and he’d meant it. He’s almost entirely sure he _still_ means it. This was always how it was going to end.

“Morning,” Dean murmurs, his arms tightening around Cas. Cas’s face softens at the sound of the other man’s voice, a small smile replacing the frown that had made its way onto his lips as he stared out the window.

“Sun’s out,” Cas answers, resolutely pushing his dark thoughts away. If he’s going to lose Dean soon, there’s no point in poisoning the mood with his worries. It is what it is. “We should go hang out by the pool,” he suggests. “There’s a swim up bar.”

“I like swim up bars.” Dean snuffles his answer into the pillow, clearly not intent on getting out of bed anytime soon, but it’s enough for Castiel.

~*~

The thing about poolside relaxing is that it’s generally done in swimsuits. Castiel knows this. Everyone knows this. It still catches him off guard when they make their way downstairs to the largest of the resort’s three pools and select a couple of chairs in the blazing sun, and Dean slips out of his worn and faded Metallica shirt. Cas has seen him naked plenty of times, and in various states of undress even more frequently, but for some reason watching him settle into a lounge chair in nothing but a pair of swim trunks has Castiel staring for so long that he nearly forgets he’s supposed to be occupying the neighboring seat. He moves quickly once he catches himself, settling in comfortably onto the woven fabric of the chair with sunglasses perched on his nose. He still can’t help glancing sideways though, stealing quick looks at the muscles of Dean’s chest and the slight softness of his belly.

They didn’t get out of the room anywhere near as soon as Castiel would have anticipated, but it’s still too early for a drink. Or rather, it would be back home in reality, but apparently those rules don’t apply here in paradise. They’re only basking in the sun for a few minutes before an attendant in khaki shorts and a polo shirt emblazoned with the resort’s logo comes around to take their drink orders.

When the guy returns with their drinks, Dean lifts his in a toast, the tiny little umbrella swaying merrily as he does. “This is the life,” Dean offers up, maneuvering the little pink straw into his mouth to take a long sip of the absurdly sweet drink before setting it down on the table between them.

“It doesn’t suck,” Cas agrees. “Now that the weather is getting nicer we might actually see some of the island.”

“What’s there to see?” Dean challenges. “We’ve done the beach thing and I don’t think either of us wants to repeat that. We’re doing the pool thing right now. We drove into town the other day.”

“Dirt biking?” Cas suggests.

“I’d be all for it,” Dean tells him, “but St. John is all about its eco-friendly rep.  No way there’s a single dirt bike on this island.  And I don’t look good in helmets, anyway.”

“I’m having a hard time imagining anything you don’t look good in, but point taken, no dirt biking. There’s some really picturesque hiking trails?”

Dean snorts. “I’m not a hiking kind of guy.” Castiel concedes with a nod, but it stings just a little. It reminds him that he doesn’t actually know what kind of guy Dean _is._ He knows barely anything about him except that he likes pie and sex.

“Got it.  No big outdoor adventures. We could go back to that grill?”

Dean sips his beverage thoughtfully, staring into the distance for a few quiet moments before he answers. “We could, I guess. We’re taking your rental though. I’m not spending one minute longer behind the wheel of mine than I have to.”

“What’s wrong with your car?” Cas asks, confused.

“It’s too…new,” Dean replies. “Give me a classic car any day. Every time I—“ he catches himself at the last second, on the verge maybe of revealing some kind of detail about his life. “Never mind. I just don’t like all these new ones.”

“Think you might be on to something there. I bought a new car just so I wouldn’t have to deal with the repairs older models need, but it didn’t save me any grief. I mean, when you have a three-year-old vehicle, you don’t expect to lose power at highway speeds and have the dash display start telling you the car’s in park all of a sudden.” He makes a disgusted noise, remembering how terrifying it was to have to get himself onto the shoulder before the car slowed down too much.

Dean laughs derisively, shaking his head. “Lemme guess, you took it to the dealership and they told you it’s a problem with the battery or the alternator?”

“Yes!” Cas exclaims. “Which is just stupid, because your car doesn’t run off the battery while the engine is going. Anyone who understands the basic principles of a combustion engine knows that. But how did you…?”

“Never mind,” Dean says, cutting him off. “Point is they’re wrong. It’s the electronic transmission control unit.”

“You’ve lost me.” It’s not something Cas has ever heard of, and certainly outside the realm of his limited mechanical understanding.

“You see,” Dean tells him, his voice taking on a tone that Cas has never heard before. It’s less like he’s sharing a conversation and more like he’s teaching, and it’s this tiny little window that, despite everything, Cas relishes. “Some of the newer cars, the ones with automatic transmissions, are actually manual transmissions. The physical mechanism is a manual transmission but you don’t have a clutch or a shifter. There’s a computer chip that does it for you. So it’s really kinda the same thing as having an automatic transmission, but you get some of the fuel efficiency benefits. In some of these models, the chip glitches, and it can throw up errors like the ones you were having. I know Ford had a recall on some of theirs last year. Don’t let them dick you around on this. If there isn’t a recall in already, it should at least be covered under your warranty.”

“That’s…thanks.” Cas answers sincerely. “That’s really helpful.”

It’s hard to transition that into any sort of conversation that doesn’t involve discussion about their lives back home, so instead they fall into companionable silence, each sipping away at their cocktails and basking lazily in the newly emerged sun. The fact that they can sit quietly and not have it be awkward says things that Castiel isn’t quite prepared to deal with about how comfortable they are with each other after so short a time. He knows basically nothing about the man next to him, but his presence alone is so welcome, so steadying, it feels like they’ve known each other for years. Objectively, Castiel knows this is a Very Bad Thing, but there’s nothing really to be done for it now.

Rather than fight with the knowledge that he’s let himself form attachments where he shouldn’t have, Castiel thinks about what Dean said about his car. It’s oddly specific, how easily he identified the problem. Considering Dean’s insistence on the superiority of classic cars, it’s safe to surmise that he didn’t learn this useful tidbit from going through the same diagnostic rigors Cas found himself entrenched in prior to this little trip. If he’s staunchly opposed to driving a late model sedan around the island, there’s no chance he drives something back home that’s new enough to have the same kind of computerized mechanism. This either means that he happens to have known someone who went through the same experience, or, much more likely in Castiel’s opinion, he has a job that puts him on the front lines with this kind of thing. And considering his loathing for the computerized nature of newer model cars, Castiel would bet good money he’s not one of the guys designing them, so that leaves mechanic. It’s the only logical explanation. Dean knows what is wrong with Castiel’s car because he fixes cars.

There’s something incredibly appealing about a man who works with his hands. Castiel has always considered himself more attracted to intellectuals, men who carry themselves well and speak eloquently, but it occurs to him now that Dean is still those things. There’s never been a topic they’ve discussed that Dean hasn’t been able to hold his own on, never a person they’ve encountered at any of the restaurants on the resort or the island that he hasn’t been able to effortlessly charm. Castiel’s first impression was that Dean was not his usual type because he didn’t _look_ to be his type, but he should be smart enough to know that you should never judge a book by its cover. Dean may be rugged and down to earth with his ripped jeans and his flannels, and he may (possibly) work with his hands for a living, but he’s every bit as clever as the people Castiel spends his time with at work. Possibly more so, because he lacks any kind of pretension about it. It’s refreshing. Castiel enjoys it.

He really shouldn’t enjoy it quite so much.

He’s prevented from mentally chastising himself too much on the subject though, because just off to Castiel’s left, Dean is flailing his arms around madly, and it’s very distracting.

“What are you doing?” Castiel demands, hastily setting his drink down and springing from his seat.

“There’s a hornet!” Dean shouts, still waving his arms, trying to swat the thing away.

Well. That will never do. Castiel huffs out an impatient sigh, casting his eyes around until he spots the insect. It’s moving too fast for him to get a good read on right away, but it’s also not exactly trying to sting anyone, so Dean’s assumption that it’s a hornet is already off the table. His eyes narrow as he tracks the little thing, and soon he decides he needs to intervene.

“Calm down,” he insists, coming around to the side of Dean’s chair in preparation to physically restrain him if need be. Dean stops flailing, if only because there’s now another human being in proximity that he might accidentally hit if he’s not careful. It’s good enough. “It’s not a hornet,” he explains. “That’s a Jack Spaniard wasp. There’s loads of them around here. They’re not aggressive at all. Stop swatting at it and it’s not even going to think about stinging you.”

“Yeah right,” Dean scoffs. “Vicious little fuckers.”

“They’ll only sting if you threaten them or their nest,” Cas insists. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by swinging your arms around like that.” Dean finally relents, watching hesitantly as the wasp flits off into the sky, disappearing out of their field of view against a backdrop of blue.

“Not a big fan of bugs,” Dean grouses.

“You should respect Apocrita insects,” Cas tells him sternly. “If it weren’t for them, everything you love to eat would die. Do you know how severely colony collapse could impact our agricultural system? Bees and wasps aren’t really interested in stinging you, and even the hornets that are more aggressive only want to get you if you seem like a threat. Really, they have more to fear from you than you do from them.”

“I’ll remember that next time a swarm of angry bees chases after me. I won’t jump in the water to hide from them, I’ll just calmly tell them they have nothing to fear from me.” Oh good, sarcasm.

“Dean,” Castiel continues patiently. “You’re very unlikely to have a swarm of angry bees chasing you at any point in your life unless you plan on going around disturbing hives. And cartoons have lied to you. Just because Bugs Bunny escaped a swarm in a lake doesn’t mean that’s going to work in real life. In all likelihood, you’ll run out of air before you get far enough away to evade them, and they’re not likely to calm down by the time you come up to take your next breath. I certainly wouldn’t jump into a lake to avoid them.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Actually, I wouldn’t jump into a lake, period.”

“Why?” Dean asks with a laugh. “Can’t swim?”

“It’s not funny,” Castiel insists, “I never learned!”

“Then why were you so excited about a swim up bar?”

Cas shrugs, eyes downcast. “I thought you’d be excited about it. I’m happy with the poolside bar. Besides, the swim up bar is in the shallower side. I could walk in water that deep and still touch the bottom.”

Dean drops heavily back into his chair as Cas returns to his own seat. The last few drops of Dean’s piña colada make a veritable cacophony as he sucks them up through the straw. He frowns at the empty glass. “These things aren’t half bad. A little sweet, but definitely a good vacation drink.”

“So you like piña coladas then?” Cas asks wryly. “Let me guess, next thing you’ll be telling me you like getting caught in the rain, too.”

“Oh, no way. Fuck that. Do not start,” Dean warns.

“Or what?” Cas challenges. “Empty threats. I bet you’re not into yoga either, and it’s clear to me that you have at _least_ half a brain.”

Dean practically leaps up from his seat then, standing menacingly over Cas and casting a dark shadow over him. “I will throw you in the pool if you keep going, and then I’m gonna have to dive in to rescue you, and it’s gonna be this whole big thing, so maybe you should just stop.”

“Okay, okay!” Cas grins, throwing up his hands in surrender. “I yield!”

“Good,” Dean pronounces with finality. “I’m gonna go get us another drink.”

There is no shame in admiring the way Dean moves as he saunters off to the edge of the pool to jump in. None at all. His hips sway just a little, the bow in his legs more pronounced now that they’re bare, and the sheen of sweat left on his skin by the blistering sun makes him appear to glow. No shame whatsoever.

Completely shameless.

Just like it’s totally shameless when he stares at Dean ascending the stairs in the shallow end of the pool, crystal droplets of water cascading over his muscles. He’s got beers this time, amber liquid in clear plastic cups like the kind you might see at a college house party. There’s no glass allowed poolside, obviously, but it does ruin the ambiance a little.

“I could teach you, you know,” Dean says as he hands over one of the beers. “To swim. It’s not that hard.”

“Yeah?” Cas replies carefully. “You think so?”

“Yeah!” Dean exclaims, sketching a casual wave as he sits back down sideways on his chair so he’s facing Cas this time. “Smart guy like you, I bet you’d pick it up easy.”

Cas eyes him warily. “Tell me how you’d teach me,” he says, his mouth twisting into a frown. “I’m interested in your instructional theory.”

“Well you gotta learn to float first. We’d get in the shallow end. Your body already knows how to do it but I’m guessing if you can’t swim you probably aren’t comfortable just floating there either.”

“Probably,” Cas concedes with a grimace. He’s never really tried, truly, not since he was a child. And that one attempt ended worse than he could have ever imagined. He’s still not sure how his parents managed to convince themselves it was his fault. He was a _child_ , for crying out loud. He and Jimmy were children. They shouldn’t have been left unsupervised by the water like that. It was, of course, the last time they did so, but the damage was already done. He used to have a brother, a built-in friend that he followed everywhere like a shadow. Now he only has the horrible memories of that day, the grief and the sadness and, naturally, a horrible aversion to any large body of water.

Logically, of course his body must float like anyone else’s does, he’s just never tested the hypothesis.

Dean continues with a nod, talking animatedly and gesturing with his hands. If he notices the dark thoughts that pass behind Cas’s eyes, he doesn’t comment. Maybe he’s better than Cas is at keeping this separate from reality. Maybe he’s better equipped to resist the urge to form attachments than Cas is. “Then once you do okay with floating, we start trying to paddle. Kick your legs a little, dog paddle or whatever. You don’t need to learn how to do laps like an Olympic swimmer, just keep yourself up and move around a little.”

“That sounds like it would take quite a bit of practice,” Cas observes.

“It could.” Dean takes a long drink of his beer, sighing as he sets the drink down, the cool amber ale a perfect respite on the hot day. “I’d be totally willing to help you, though.”

“I think that would take more time than we have today.”

“Oh,” Dean breathes. Realization appears to dawn on him slowly, like he’d completely forgotten the time limit they’re working with, and then it’s Castiel’s turn to pretend he doesn’t notice the battle going on behind his eyes. “Yeah. I suppose so.”

“Still, I appreciate the offer.” And he does. He sincerely does. He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to get back in the water though. Not after what it took from him. “I have a better idea of how we could spend our day, though.”

“Do you now?” Dean says with marked interest.

“Well I already know how you feel about piña coladas and yoga,” Cas tells him. “But there’s more to the song than that. It’s not _quite_ midnight, and I certainly wouldn’t call it making love, but I do still have something in my suitcase I promised to show you last night and we never actually got back to my room. Once we finish our drinks we should head back upstairs and see where that takes us.”

Dean doesn’t bother answering. He just picks up his plastic cup, drains the remaining half beer like he’s dying of thirst, and fixes Cas with the most intense stare in his repertoire. And Castiel could laugh, but he’s just as eager to escape thoughts of how quickly this will come to an end and just as happy to spend what time they have left together wrapped up in Dean instead of reality.

They don’t so much walk through the door of Castiel’s room as stumble through it, blindly groping for light switches at the same time they grope at each other’s bodies. Dean’s swim trunks are still wet so they end up tossed unceremoniously into the bathtub almost as soon as they’re inside the room, and Castiel paws through his suitcase while Dean dries himself off. He’s pleased to see that Dean is already hard by the time he finds what he’s looking for, and even more pleased at the look of surprise on Dean’s face when he shows him what it is.

“Handcuffs?” Dean goggles, eyes wide.

“Well yeah. I mean, you did want me to restrain you with something other than a bathrobe tie, right?”

“Yeah but you just happened to have handcuffs in your suitcase?” Dean crosses his arms over his bare chest. “What kind of a vacation were you planning?”

“Hey, you never know when you’re going to meet a gorgeous stranger who doesn’t mind being tied down and fucked.” Cas shrugs, appearing more casual than he really feels. “It’s good to be prepared.”

“Doesn’t mind?” Dean challenges.

“Really enjoys?” Cas corrects himself.

“That’s more like it.”

“As I said, you never know when you’re going to meet a gorgeous stranger who really enjoys being tied down and fucked, so it’s a good idea to have a pair of handcuffs in your suitcase. I would have brought rope, too, but it’s a bit heavier and they charge for overweight baggage now, so I left that at home. It’s too bad we met where we did. I have all sorts of toys at home that you’d probably enjoy.” His grin is wicked as he stares Dean up and down, enjoying the look of his naked body. “But I suppose these will have to do,” he laments, swinging the cuffs around on one finger.

Dean draws a deep breath, letting it out slowly like he’s trying to calm himself down. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “What a fucking shame.”

Cas rolls his eyes, clutching the handcuffs tightly as he approaches Dean and kisses him soundly. “Gimme your hands,” he commands firmly, trying to conceal how pleased he is when Dean complies immediately, raising both hands up in between them. The cuff locks securely around one wrist, and without warning he spins Dean around, bringing his two hands together behind his back to latch the other end of the cuff. He tests the tension carefully, then lets go of Dean’s hands to run teasing fingertips over his hips. “How’s that? Too tight?”

“I, uh…” Dean huffs. “I don’t know. How tight are they supposed to be? I’ve never been in handcuffs before.”

“Do they hurt?” Cas asks, earning a shake of Dean’s head. “Then they’re probably not too tight. Let me know if that changes though.”

“Okay,” Dean affirms, but he doesn’t really seem focused on the conversation. Really, he’s just kinda squirming and fidgeting.

“You wanna get on with this?” Cas asks, barely suppressing the mirth in his voice.

“Yes please,” Dean breathes. That’s all Cas needs. He gives Dean a little shove, upsetting his balance and pitching him forward to land face first on the bed, arms trapped behind him and legs flailing. He grunts as he falls, and Cas can’t help the somewhat wicked laugh that slips out of his mouth.

“I like you like this.” Cas means this sincerely. He can’t help it. He really does. Dean turns his head to the side and tries to peer over his shoulders, but it’s kind of a futile thing. He might catch a tiny glimpse of Cas undressing, but not enough to really matter. Still, he can probably hear the rustle of clothing as Cas sheds his shorts. “Let me get a better look,” he says softly, then steps closer, grabbing hold of Dean’s hips to lift them high so he can get his knees under him. Once he’s settled, Cas runs his hands over Dean’s ass almost reverently, petting and stroking and just reveling in the fact that he gets to touch something this perfect.  “I’m gonna enjoy this,” Cas says honestly. “God, you have no idea.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters. “Get the impression you already are.”

Cas’s laugh is less wicked this time, more soft and mirthful. “What can I say? You’re inspiring. Get your ass a little higher for me?”

He’s not expecting Dean to scramble so quickly to obey, but he’s not complaining. The man moves as well as he’s able with no hands to use and tucks his knees further under, pushing his perfect ass a few inches higher into the air. He’s so nicely displayed it seems almost a shame to disturb him but, well, Cas has plans for that ass.

“Perfect,” Cas announces. “Stay just like that. No, don’t move. You’re exactly where I want you. Such a good boy.”

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean groans. “You can’t just say shit like that!”

“Can’t I?” Cas retorts, dragging the pad of his thumb over Dean’s hole.  “You’re telling me you don’t like it?” He can almost hear the gears turning in Dean’s head at the question, his internal battle trying to decide whether to deny it or admit it, but his silence is confirmation enough. “That’s what I thought. You’re loving this just as much as I am, and you’re going to love it even more by the time I’m done.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grouses. “Just hurry up and get in me.”

“Oh no,” Cas chides. His hands still rest on Dean’s hips, fingers tightening in warning. “There will be no hurrying. You get what I decide to give you, when I’m ready to give it.” He gives Dean a light smack, not even close enough to a spanking to qualify as verging on impact play, just an admonition.  Dean doesn’t make any kind of noise in reply but he also doesn’t complain, so Cas just files the information away and gets on with it.

Dean hisses at the cool touch of lube, but soon he’s relaxing under Cas’s ministrations, sighs gradually giving way to moans. He opens up so beautifully to Cas’s touches, and Cas has to wonder how Dean never thought to consider whether he might want to bottom before this week because it’s like he was made for it. He made some pretty great noises when he was topping, and there’s no question that he enjoyed it, but it was nothing like this. He’s absolutely intoxicating, unbridled and unhinged just from the touch of Cas’s fingers. Cas is going to remember these sounds for years.

Just to be sure, just to be extra careful, he fingers Dean open long past when he thinks the man is ready. All his touches are slow and gentle, nothing that might cause pain. That’s not the game they’re playing at here, although Cas thinks, given enough time to adjust to the idea, Dean might be on board for that. Time is not something they have in spades, however, so Cas shelves those thoughts. Instead, he resolves to torture Dean with purest pleasure and drag the experience out to the point of near suffering before he pushes him over the edge. As it stands, Dean would have been ready for his cock quite some time ago, but Cas waits until he’s whimpering, abortive little sounds he tries to choke back but can’t quite suppress, before deciding that Dean is well and truly ready to be fucked.

Without a word he pulls away, leaving Dean whining as he steps over to the nightstand to grab a condom and sheathe himself. His cock, despite having no attention paid to it whatsoever, is achingly hard, the head purple and swollen. This is what it does to him, just being near Dean. He lines up, touching just the tip to Dean’s slick hole, and pauses in question.

“Yes?” Cas asks quietly, his voice calm and firm.

“Yes,” Dean breathes in reply, shaky and desperate. What a change from the man he met a few days ago, the man who would never dream of taking a cock in the ass let alone asking for it. Cas thinks he could make Dean beg if he dragged this out. He wishes he had the restraint to test that theory, but he wants his cock in Dean’s ass just as much as Dean does.

He sinks in without another word, the longest, slowest push. His hips creep forward and he revels in the slow drag as he slides in. It feels like an eternity before he’s fully seated, his body pressed right up against Dean’s, and then because he’s cruel sometimes and he knows it, he just stays there, unmoving, and waits.

It’s no surprise that Dean is impatient. Castiel wouldn’t be patient either in his position. It’s not long before he starts to squirm and whine, stopping just short of actually asking Cas to move. He does a pretty good job of conveying his request otherwise, though. His hips start out shifting slowly, just little twitches like he knows Cas won’t permit it and he’s trying to fight it. His whimpers are almost silent at first, soft noises barely heard in the quiet of the room. It doesn’t last long like that. Very soon he starts to wiggle more, pushing his hips back and with more intent, nearly demanding attention. And where before his noises were soft and quiet, now they’re needy and strained, pitching upward until Cas can’t bring himself to ignore them anymore.

“Did you want something, Dean?” he asks innocently, able to perfectly call to mind the wicked glare he knows Dean would be throwing his way if he had the ability to turn to face him.

“You know what I want, you dick,” Dean shoots back.

“Yeah,” Cas confirms, his voice soft and almost dreamy. “I do.” He draws his hips back without further comment, retreating until he’s pulled almost all the way out before pushing forward again just as slow. The measured pace he sets takes all his restraint. It would be so easy to plunge his cock into Dean’s ass hard and fast, throw caution to the wind and just fuck him into the mattress. He knows they’d both enjoy that, but he has other plans. Dean has never been restrained like this before, so Castiel must himself be restrained. He wants Dean to feel claimed, but not taken. There should be no question that Cas respects the surrender offered up in his agreement to wear the cuffs, so he has to be careful. That means slow. That means teasing. That means restraint.

“Cas…” Dean whines, stopping just short of pleading, but his meaning is clear. He wants more. He wants faster, harder, deeper.

Cas doesn’t grant his request.

He keeps going at the same careful pace, drawing back and sliding home with no more speed, no more intensity than before, his hands clutching lightly at Dean’s hips the whole time. He makes gentle shushing sounds, soothing Dean with his voice and his touches, knowing full well it’s a poor replacement for what he’s being denied.

It comes as no surprise when Dean fights against the restrictions of Cas’s chosen pace and starts to take matters into his own, albeit restrained, hands. His tiny little hip motions are promptly replaced by firmer, more solid pushes, driving his body back to try to force Cas to take him harder, and that will never do.

“No,” Cas commands firmly, a single word that carries with it all the weight of his dominance. His light grip on Dean’s hips becomes strong and bracing, holding him still and preventing further disobedience. Dean whines, a high, pleading noise that borders on complaint, but he stays still as he’s told. “Good boy,” Cas tells him. He receives no resistance to the praise this time which just goes to show how well he’s been reading Dean, and he resumes his careful pace.

Slow and steady and never quite enough, he keeps it up like this for a few minutes longer, just long enough to make it clear that the eventual increase in tempo has nothing to do with Dean’s demands and everything to do with the fact that Cas decided it was time. The acceleration is gradual at first, just enough of an increase that Dean starts to moan with each thrust, finally getting some kind of satisfaction instead of a cruel tease. And he’s so well behaved, remaining still now with the memory of Cas’s admonition, never seeking to plead for more because he knows it won’t accomplish anything.

The increase in speed may be incremental, but it still doesn’t take too much longer before all the reservation is gone and Cas is slamming into him hard and fast, and then Dean isn’t the only one moaning loudly. He can’t help himself. Dean just feels so _good_ , spread open and stretched around his cock. It’s a glorious sensation made even better by the knowledge that Dean is enjoying it just as much. Possibly even more, if the way he sounds is any indication.

The buildup has been so slow, so drawn out, that it’s truly startling that Cas feels his orgasm beginning to build. The heat coils in his belly, his muscles begin to tense and his movements grow erratic, but he can’t bring himself to let go until Dean has gotten his. His focus goes into staving off the inevitable for as long as possible.

He’s stopped trying to stall Dean’s motions now, instead just using his grip on Dean’s hips to pull him backwards and deepen each thrust, and he revels in the beautiful way Dean responds to his efforts. He’s practically crying with his pleasure now, desperate and choked out sobs filling the air. He’s got to be getting close, even without any friction on his cock.

Cas is just about to lean himself forward and reach beneath Dean’s body to stroke him towards orgasm when Dean cries out, his ass clenching around Cas’s cock as he comes. It comes on so suddenly that Cas is startled by it, and all his efforts to remain stoic and his desire to fuck Dean through it before succumbing to his own orgasm are for naught. The moment he feels Dean tightening around him, he loses the battle, hips stuttering as they come in unison. Cas only has a few more thrusts in him after that, rocking against Dean’s body with all the energy he can muster before pulling out, discarding the condom quickly, and returning his attention to Dean’s cuffed hands. He wants nothing more than to collapse on the bed and enjoy the afterglow, but he can’t leave Dean trapped like this.

There’s a soft clicking as he unlocks the cuffs, freeing Dean’s hands from their metallic confines. He drops them unceremoniously to the floor and massages Dean’s wrists a little, checking to make sure there’s no chafing before climbing onto the bed, curling up on his side and drawing Dean into his arms. There’s a mess of come on Dean’s belly that his fingers drag through, but he doesn’t care. They can shower later. Right now is for closeness, for comfort. For, dare he say it, cuddling.

Dean sighs contentedly when Cas pulls him close, going willingly. He gets the sense that Dean might have resisted the little spoon position before just like he would have resisted bondage and bottoming, but he takes to it easily now. They’re comfortable, and for the moment, they’re happy, and that will have to be enough.

“That was…wow,” Dean says after a moment, bringing a small laugh to Cas’s lips.

“Yeah?” Cas says with a smile. “I thought so.”

“You’re a little shit, though,” Dean tells him.

Cas laughs raucously, shaking Dean and the bed with the force of his mirth. “That’s kind of the idea,” he challenges. “I think we need a shower.”

“Later,” Dean insists. “Too tired to move.”

Cas concedes with a sigh, falsely indignant. Really, he’s perfectly content to stay here as long as Dean wants.

It’s not until much later that night, after dinner, a shower, and several more rounds of sex, that Cas realizes they haven’t even checked to see if the airport is open yet, and by then, he’s too exhausted and happy to care. Instead, he drifts off to sleep with Dean firmly ensconced in his arms, knowing that he’s just delaying the inevitable by not checking. Home will still be waiting when he wakes up in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Handcuffs, Bottom!Dean


	7. Day Five: May 12 – 13, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to an end, they say. Dean and Cas knew this was coming, and they knew it was going to be sooner rather than later. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

It was well after one before Dean finally dropped into an exhausted, fucked-out slumber on Cas’s chest last night, so when his phone starts happily screeching Sam’s ringtone shortly after eight, Dean’s first impulse is to throw it against the wall hard enough that it won’t ever make that (or any other) racket ever again.

He manages to restrain himself, rolling off of the warm, firm chest he had been comfortably pillowed on to scrabble around on the bedside table. His hands close on (and subsequently discard) an empty box of condoms, a _half-_ empty box of condoms (What? At least they’re being safe), an empty bottle of lube, a nearly full bottle of lube (What? You can never have too much lubrication), and a crumpled, unpleasantly stiffened washcloth before finally landing on his phone. He squints at it as Cas stirs, groaning and burying his head under a pillow, presumably to escape the horrible sound Dean’s phone is making. Jesus Christ, how could he have ever thought this was an acceptable noise for anything to make? He stabs wildly at the screen, not especially caring if he sends Sam to voicemail or answers the call as long as he makes the noise stop.

In the end, his haphazard prodding results in Dean answering the call. He drags the phone up to his ear and grunts his displeasure with his younger brother. “The fuck, S’m?”

“Dean?” There is surprise in Sam’s voice, which doesn’t make any sense because it’s fucking eight in the morning and Dean is still on vacation, albeit an artificially extended one, “Did I wake you up?”

“No shit, man,” Dean grumbles, rolling gracelessly onto the floor and staggering toward the bathroom to piss. Big brother code says that hearing Dean piss is the least Sam has earned in payback for waking him up at this ungodly hour.

“Sorry, I figured you’d be at the airport by now. I wanted to make sure I caught you before your flight left.” It takes Dean a second to register what Sam is saying, and another one to connect the dots and realize what this means. There is really no accounting for the way his stomach plunges into his feet when it all comes together.

The airport has reopened.

Without quite meaning to do so, he finds that he has stopped short a few feet shy of the bathroom and pivoted back to face the room. His eyes lock on the bare chest and haphazardly splayed arm that emerge from the covers, and Dean thinks that he has never seen anything quite so beautiful. A few seconds later, Sam’s voice sounds again, concern tingeing his tone. “Dean? You still there?”

“Yeah, no, I’m here, Sammy,” Dean speaks up, hastily, his voice a little gruffer than simple sleepiness can quite account for. “No, I—I haven’t gotten my flight details hashed out with the airline quite yet. Big backlog and all, you know how it is. I’ll text you as soon as I know my travel info, okay?”

Sam doesn’t get the hint and Dean has to sit through a honeymoon tale that would probably have been interesting and kind of amusing if Dean weren’t currently struggling with the feeling that he has just been plunged into a pool of ice water. He makes the right sounds, chuckles insincerely, says all the right things, and finally manages to get Sam off the phone.

He stands in the middle of the room for a few moments, fingers clenching around his phone so tightly that they ache, eyes locked onto the steady rise and fall of a sculpted chest he has come to know extraordinarily well over the last four days. His heart pounds uncomfortably fast in his chest as he thinks about getting on a plane and going back home to his solitary life. He tells himself that the rising panic is solely a result of the fact that he’s gonna have to fly home (he really, really, _really_ loathes planes), then forces himself to turn away from the sleeping body on the bed and follow through on his previous plan to pee.

Once he’s done, he stands naked in the bathroom and stares at his phone. He needs to call the airline to rebook his flight. And he’s going to. He really is. Any second now.

“Any second now” turns out to be about ten minutes later, and only after pacing back and forth across the tiny space so many times that he’s practically dizzy. He finally just does it, jabbing his finger down onto the touchscreen to repeat the same phone call he’s made with decreasing enthusiasm every day since the airport closed (with the exception of yesterday, actually, when neither of them bothered to check it at all).

In what feels like no time at all he is connected to a peppy young man who looks through flight schedules and apologetically informs Dean that the soonest flight he can fit him on doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning and won’t get him back to Sioux Falls until more than fourteen hours later, mostly because he’s going to have not one but _two_ layovers. Dean resolutely ignores the stab of relief at the discovery that he’s _(they’re)_ not out of time just yet and reassures the airline representative that he understands. The man, still apologetic, somehow manages to wrangle Dean an upgrade on two out of three flights, not to mention access to the airline’s first class lounge during his longest layover—three hours in Dallas, of all places. Dean makes sure to thank him profusely before getting off the phone.

He stands under the glare of the fluorescent lights for another thirty seconds or so, then shakes himself off and exits the bathroom. He is suddenly struck by the overwhelming need to see the lines of Cas’s body illuminated in the morning glow, to re-experience the moment of awe he recalls so vividly from their first morning together. Ordinarily he would quash it, has quashed just such impulses multiple times over the past few days, but this? This is the end. This is their last morning together. His last chance.

He goes with it.

Crossing the room to the window, he tugs back the heavy blackout drapes, leaving only the gauzy, translucent curtain behind. It softens the sunlight, bathes the room in a kind of diffuse, almost surreal glow. It is lovely, but Dean has eyes for only one thing in the room. That same bare chest, still rising and falling slowly and steadily. That same well-defined arm sprawled out loosely across the mussed sheets, his fingers curved lightly in relaxation. Dean crosses to the bed, climbs back onto it on his knees, leans over to press a kiss to the upward-facing palm. The fingers splay wide and then curve again, lightly cupping Dean’s chin. He presses another kiss, then a third before he forces himself to stop. This isn’t kosher, what he’s doing. The yearning gaze, the adoring kisses; he is giving an outlet to the bizarre wistfulness that overtook him the moment he parsed what Sam was saying, and he can’t. He mustn’t.

“Cas,” he says, before he can lose his nerve and crawl back into the circle of Cas’s arms to fall back to sleep, before he can awaken the other man with the kind of sweet kisses and caresses he’d like to. “Cas, wake up, man. Airport’s open, you gotta call the airline.”

There is a grunt from the pillow Cas stuffed his head underneath when Sam called. Dean’s lips twitch. There are so many things about Cas he doesn’t know but more than a few that he does, and if there’s one thing he’s learned over the past four days, it’s that Cas is _not_ a morning person. “I know, it’s early, but flights are already filling up. If you don’t wanna be stuck here for the next week, you gotta get up.” Cas grunts again, and this one sounds a little interrogative, as if he’s actually starting to return to awareness.

Dean reaches down and carefully plucks the pillow from the other man’s face, discarding it to one side as Cas scrunches his eyes up in displeasure at the morning light spilling across his face. “Too early,” Cas grunts, but he manages to surprise Dean yet again when despite his clear sleepiness, the hand that Dean had been so admiring shoots out, seizes Dean’s wrist, and yanks, tugging Dean until he is once more prone on the bed. He goes with it, unable to stop himself from laughing as Cas plants a hand on the side of Dean’s head and squishes Dean’s face into his chest. “Sleep now. Talk later.”

“Tempting,” Dean tells him, quite sincerely, “but you gotta wake up. Airport’s open,” he reiterates, “you gotta call the airline. I couldn’t get a flight out till tomorrow morning and if you wait much longer who knows how long it’ll—“ the silence from Cas has been somehow thickening as Dean speaks, until Cas finally interrupts him in mid-ramble.

“Wait, what? The airport—“ he’s clearly still battling the weight of sleep, but Dean can hear a hint of tension in Cas’s voice as he starts to process.

“Reopened this morning,” Dean confirms, “or maybe late yesterday, I’m not actually sure. You gotta—“

Once again, he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, this time because Cas has suddenly rolled atop him, and familiar lips brush against his own. “Call the airline,” Cas says, “yes, I got that. Shush.”

Dean shushes, in part because of the instruction and in part because Cas is almost immediately kissing him again, shifting until he’s cradled between Dean’s legs, until Dean’s thighs are parted widely around his hips. It turns out Cas can addle his brain even with slow, sweet kisses, because Dean’s not entirely sure how it happens, but suddenly lubed fingers are gently probing at him. He groans, his cock stiffening to full hardness with almost embarrassing speed considering how recently he was heard to insist that he didn’t bottom.

Cas takes his time fingering Dean open, every movement wrapped in that same languid thoroughness. It’s not that their sex has always been hard and fast, it’s not like this is the first slow morning sex they’ve had, but there is an additional layer to it this time. There is an additional gentleness to this. Cas touches him as if he is—not fragile, that’s not quite right. _Precious._ Cas touches him as if he is precious, and it damn near breaks Dean’s heart.

Cas fingers him open with unhurried thoroughness but it still feels like no time at all before he’s rolling away just long enough to put on a condom. He enters Dean in one smooth slide, buries himself to the hilt and then simply waits, letting Dean adjust. Their gazes lock, and Dean’s mouth falls open just a little. When Cas starts to move, there’s no urgency to it, his thrusts patient and steady, and Dean is all about it in a way he has never really been about slow, sweet sex before. It’s not until he realizes with a jolt of horror that he’s hovering on the verge of tears that he spots the danger in this kind of sex.

Half-hating himself for it, he grabs Cas’s biceps and rolls them over, shifting until he kneels astride the other man. Cas goes with it, allows Dean to take the lead. The pace he sets is a much faster one, driving himself down onto Cas’s cock harder, with a kind of urgency _(desperation)_ that Cas’s thrusts lacked. He has to somehow undo the moments of weakness. He has to undo the thoughts he shouldn’t be thinking, to bury the uneasy sense that what was happening a second ago was something altogether different than fucking, something they cannot be doing.

Cas seems to get it, because after a moment his hands close around Dean’s hips and his face tightens a little, his expression closing off in a way that sends a stab of pain through Dean even though he knows it’s for the best.

They finish quickly after that, ten or fifteen strokes making Dean’s cock spill over his own hand, Cas pulsing inside of him no more than thirty seconds later. Dean rolls off of Cas and sprawls beside him on the bed, breathing hard.

The tension in the room is still thick enough to bite, the silence not uncomfortable but _charged._ Dean has to do something to snap it before he says something he shouldn’t. “Well, and good morning to you too, Cas,” he says, pleased to find that his voice contains much of its usual (and expected) swagger.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says quietly, turning his head so that blue eyes briefly lock with green. They look away at the same moment. “I should call the airline, but I’m gonna have to—you should probably—“ he sounds almost reluctant, and Dean realizes suddenly that Cas will have to make mention of his last name, of his destination, of all sorts of personal information that Dean has no right to. They made an agreement, and Dean needs to honor it. He should go back to his room, let Cas make the phone call. They can meet back up later.

But he’s a goddamn coward who can’t bear to give up any of the time they have left, so he doesn’t. Instead, he nods and rolls off the bed. “Yeah, good call. I’ll shower while you sort out your travel plans. I, uh…” he stands for a moment, awkwardly rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. “My…flight leaves tomorrow morning, around 8:30.” He can’t come up with any good reason that he would’ve shared that, except that maybe Cas will want to stay as long as Dean is, and that’s a _terrible_ reason. He doesn’t look directly at Cas, even though he can feel the other man staring at him. After a moment he turns toward the bathroom, intent upon washing this bizarre melancholy down the drain along with the come staining his stomach.

~*~

Cas’s face is entirely neutral when he tells Dean the earliest flight he was able to get doesn’t leave till noon tomorrow. There’s no way to know whether—no. Cas has no reason to lie about it, and Dean resolves to take him at his word.

It’s still early but neither of them suggests going back to sleep, in silent mutual agreement not to waste the day. In the end they go down to one of the resort’s nicer restaurants for brunch, and there are enough of Dean’s clothes in Cas’s room that he doesn’t have to go back to his own to dress.

Neither of them mentions it.

Down in the restaurant, Dean finds his first real grin of the day. The waiter tells them that their brunch special includes ham glazed in-house with honey from the resort’s own beehives and Cas absolutely lights up, eyes widening to practically cartoon-like proportions.

“The resort has its own hives?” He demands excitedly, and even the waiter has to stifle a smile at his enthusiasm.

“Oh, yes, sir, we have seventy hives on the property, fully organic, with a full-time beekeeper. The spa and all the restaurants use the honey, and other restaurants on the islands even purchase from us. You can buy bottles of it in the gift shop if you’d like to bring some home with you.” There is a rehearsed quality to this lecture, as if the resort demands that its employees have at least this basic knowledge. Honestly, as far as Dean’s concerned, honey is honey, but Cas is so tickled that it’s hard not to be swept along with his delight.

“Is it possible to go see the hives? Talk with the beekeeper?” Cas demands of the waiter, recent claims he made to Dean about being ‘starving’ apparently forgotten in the face of something as exciting as bees. Go figure.

“I’m afraid not, they’re not open to the public. There was a brief time where we did tours, but eventually they were discontinued. The constant activity, uh, upset the bees.” The waiter clearly feels ridiculous saying this, but Cas nods in understanding, despite his clear disappointment.

“Of course, too many disruptions can certainly—but that’s neither—uh,” he suddenly seems to realize how Dean and the waiter are looking at him and sinks slightly into his chair, clearing his throat. “So, that special sounds good, huh?”

Dean takes pity on him and nods agreeably, getting on board. “Sounds amazing, actually. Honey-glazed ham and biscuits for both of us. And maybe some extra honey for the biscuits?”

“Very good, sirs. Your mimosas should be out shortly.”

The silence spins out for a moment after the waiter’s departure, and something about Cas’s demeanor suggests that he’s somewhat embarrassed by his child-like excitement. Dean doesn’t think he should be ashamed: a few months back, someone actually brought a 1970 Plymouth Hemi Superbird that had been sitting under a tarp in their grandfather’s garage into the shop—long story short, when Dean got a look at the thing he actually squealed like a girl. There’s nothing wrong with being passionate about things. Even things as weird as bees.

He knows instinctively how to draw Cas back out of his shell, to rekindle that little excited flame in his eyes. “While we’re waiting on those mimosas,” Dean says, leaning closer and noting that Cas unconsciously mirrors him, “tell me something I don’t know about bees.”

Cas blinks at him in surprise, a hair suspicious, searches his face, and apparently sees something there that convinces him Dean isn’t making fun of him. His brows knit briefly, as if picking his brain for a suitably interesting factoid (exactly how much _does_ he know about bees…?) and then his face lights up. “Have you ever heard of Japanese hornets?”

~*~

Dean had not, in fact, ever heard of Japanese hornets, but by the end of brunch he knows that they are twice as evil as he thought the Jack Spaniard wasp was, and that Japanese honeybees have evolved a brilliant method of neutralizing them involving a lot of team work and the ability to use their wings as tiny convection ovens. It’s actually really interesting and Dean has to admit that Japanese honeybees are pretty metal, a description that Cas wholeheartedly agrees with.

The mimosas flow freely during the meal and by the end, Dean actually has a little bit of a buzz going (although he could live for a millennium and never admit mimosas are capable of getting him there). The outdoor deck they eat on overlooks the water, so it seems only natural to take a stroll down the sand while their meals digest. Dean is thinking about all the incredibly in-depth knowledge Cas was able to produce out of thin air, how easy and engaging his—for lack of a better way to put it—teaching style was. Even the waiter was lingering longer than strictly necessary to listen by the time he brought the check.

Honestly, this isn’t the first time Dean has noticed that Cas is absolutely brilliant. He’s not showy about it, doesn’t wave his intellect around like a weapon, but he is clearly incredibly well-educated and knowledgeable. Honestly, it’s intimidating as fuck—or it would be if this were anything more than a fling. Yeah, he reads a lot, and yeah, he likes to keep himself up to speed on current events and develop educated opinions about stuff, but at the core, Dean’s just a high school dropout who somehow wrangled a GED in between dead-end jobs. The only reason he’s not still short-order cooking is because Bobby took pity on him and—well, never mind that, it’s irrelevant. All of this is. It doesn’t matter worth a damn if your vacation fuck is freakily smarter and more cerebral than you.

“Hey,” a voice says insistently, and Dean blinks a couple times, finding himself nose-to-nose with Cas, whose tone suggests that this isn’t the first time he tried to get Dean’s attention. That much is obvious, since Dean’s pretty sure that just a second ago they were walking down the beach side-by-side, and now Cas is in his face, “where’d you go?”

“Not really sure,” Dean lies easily, “maybe just plotting all the things I still wanna do to you before we’re out of—before tomorrow morning.”

They both freeze a little at this reminder that their time is so limited, but a second later it doesn’t matter because Cas is taking a single step forward until he’s _really_ in Dean’s face. Dean kind of wants to take a step back, not because he actually has any desire to get away, just because the idea of watching Cas stalk toward him with that slightly predatory air is uniquely compelling. Before he can, Cas has neatly reached down and seized Dean’s wrists in his hands. Somehow, Dean doesn’t even see how, a second later his wrists are crossed at the small of his back and Cas has smoothly transferred custody of both to one of his hands.

“Mmmm,” Cas hums musingly, “I am fairly certain that I’ll be the one doing things to you, in the interest of accuracy.”

“Oh, is that so,” Dean taunts, tugging a little at the grip on his wrists and finding that he really fucking likes how solidly it holds, “sounds like somebody’s getting greedy. Isn’t it _my_ turn to fuck _you_ today?”

“It could be,” Cas says, a smirk tugging up one corner of his lips, “but I think we both know that isn’t really what you want. I think we both know that you’re hoping for the kind of fuck you wanted me to give you yesterday when I had you cuffed and at my mercy. You want it hard and fast. You maybe even want it to hurt a little. And you want _me_ to be the one to give it to you.”

Holy. Fucking. Shit. Dean gapes at him for a moment, finding that he’s gone pliant in Cas’s grasp at these pronouncements—which incidentally, were probably the truest words ever spoken. Dean’s suddenly loose limbs don’t seem to inspire mercy in Cas, whose grip tightens a little on his wrists. Struggling to get his bearings back, Dean clears his throat and tries to speak with his trademark smoothness.

“I’m not saying yesterday wasn’t a good time, and I’m definitely not saying I wouldn’t be up for a little bit of a repeat, but let’s not get too crazy with the kinkiness. I’m not gonna pretend to be your dog, there’s no way I’m letting you pierce _anything_ on me, and you’re not gonna bend me over and spank me like a little girl, so…” He trails off, not entirely sure of what he was trying to get at in the first place. Cas’s face twitches, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s working really goddamn hard not to laugh—which is fair, considering.

“Wow, Dean,” Cas says, “one of these days you’re gonna have to tell me where the hell you got your bizarrely spotty awareness of kink from, because—“ he cuts off suddenly, and they stare at each other for a moment in silence because _one of these days,_ but there are no more days. There is only today, and nothing more.

Suddenly, without quite planning it, they are kissing. _Hard._ It is all tongues tangling and teeth clacking and noses smashing together until they work out a rhythm, and it’s rather dramatically more than PG-13, which is of course why four or five teen girls come strolling down the beach and take the opportunity to whistle and cheer at them.

It breaks them apart and sets them laughing, Dean going ahead and taking a bow for their amusement. The girls giggle and continue on their way, leaving Dean and Cas breathing hard, staring at each other. “So, no puppy play. No piercing. Got it. That doesn’t rule out the handcuffs again, so…” Cas points toward the main hotel building meaningfully, and Dean feels like maybe the other man forgot something in his list of no-nos, but he’s so caught up in how hot it is that Cas literally just ordered him back to his room with the stab of a single finger that he lets it slide. At least, right up until he turns around to head back to the room and a sharp cracking sound echoes in the air a split-second before a stinging warmth suffuses the underside of his right ass cheek.

He freezes in mid-step, dragging in a harsh breath, the bulge in his pants practically doubling in size. A second later, a hand closes around the exact spot that the smack fell on and _squeezes._ Dean practically hits his knees, might have actually done so if Cas didn’t rapidly slide his arm around Dean’s waist before murmuring in his ear, “Puppy play and piercing aren’t really my things, anyway, but as for the rest of it…I believe Shakespeare said something about protesting too much, didn’t he?” Dean’s breath comes in short, quick gasps, and even though the light sting has almost faded already, the intense pulse of sensation it sent to his groin is no less potent. He cannot even begin to come up with a rebuttal before Cas’s voice picks up again. “The quicker you get that ass up to my room, the less I’ll make you beg for it.”

Dean has never moved faster in his life.

~*~

“You know I have to sit on a plane tomorrow, right?” Dean mutters, craning his neck over his shoulder to try to get a look at his own ass. It’s no use, he’s just not that flexible.

“I didn’t hear you complaining at the time,” Cas points out, quite accurately, “and I definitely didn’t hear your safeword.”

Dean has never needed a safeword before. He knew what they were, of course, but despite his apparent bravado yesterday, he’s never even been tied up during sex prior to Cas. So maybe it wasn’t surprising that when Cas asked Dean to designate a “this ends right now” word, he blanked entirely. He was at least as startled as Cas when the word “umbrella” tumbled from his lips. Cas had laughed himself stupid at Dean’s choice, which might have offended Dean if he didn’t also recognize the humor.

In any case, Cas isn’t wrong, he definitely didn’t use the word in the heat of the moment, and if he’s perfectly honest he’s not _actually_ regretting that now, it just feels like he ought to do some grumbling on principle.

“In fact,” Cas says, his voice deepening a little as he surveys his recent target, “I feel fairly certain that I wasn’t the one who said—what was it now? Oh, yes. ‘Jesus Fucking Christ, Cas, I’m not gonna break. If you’re gonna do this, make it count.’”

“Incidentally,” Dean says, turning his head to narrow his eyes slightly at Cas, who is stretched out on his back looking like the poster child for the cat that ate the canary, “when I said ‘make _it_ count,’ I did _not_ mean for you to make _me_ count.”

“Pfft, you liked it,” Cas scoffs, and Dean flips him off, grinning. Cas grins back, running a hand appreciatively down Dean’s bare back before cupping one still-smarting cheek. Dean groans a little and arches his ass up into the touch, still trying to figure out how something that hurts can feel so fucking _good_. “Had I know how beautifully you would take to this, I’d have had you over my knee in that hut in the middle of the storm. I should’ve; might’ve made you think twice before risking your neck out on a beach in a hurricane.”

Dean has to swallow hard, recently spent cock twitching against the bedsheets in interest. “You know, you were out on that same beach,” he points out reasonably, his voice only a little unsteady.

“Immaterial,” Cas says, “and I was a hell of a lot more attuned to my surroundings than you were. After all, who saw the umbrella?”

“Fair,” Dean admits, then squeaks as Cas slides a finger between his cheeks, nudging it just past Dean’s still slick and loose rim, “Jesus, again? Already?”

“Are you complaining?” Cas inquires rhetorically, leaning closer to nuzzle his lips against Dean’s jawline, “because I can stop.” The finger, which has continued to worm its way deeper, starts to draw back. Dean’s ass cants back, chasing it.

“Let’s not be hasty,” Dean says hastily, “I wasn’t objecting, just making an observation.”

“Observational experiments have their place,” Cas says agreeably, “but I’ve always been the hands on type myself. Arch your back. A little more. Good.”

“I cannot fucking believe you want to talk about experimental design while you’re putting your—oh. Oh, God.”

“Shhh, you’re supposed to be observing.”

~*~

Women will never shut up about Dean’s bowlegs, and by the time dinnertime rolls around, he’s wondering if he’s gonna hear twice the comments now, cause he’s pretty sure they’re at least twice as bowed as they already were. Possibly permanently.

Cas has been insatiable since the very first, but this most recently revealed side to him? The easy dominance with which he alternately manhandles and orders Dean just where he wants him? It’s probably the hottest thing Dean’s ever seen, and it’s definitely why his refractory period has managed to yet again surpass its previous personal best.

They eat in the room, wolfing down a truly impressive number of bacon cheeseburgers while flipping channels on the television they have largely ignored this week. Dean is irrationally delighted to discover an old John Wayne movie marathon on, and the next several hours pass too-quickly as they rediscover that sex is not the only thing they enjoy doing together.

By the end of the second movie (which of _course_ happened to be _McClintock!_ of all things), Dean has laughed himself sore (well; sorer) from Cas’s snarky, deadpan narration (“That does not look safe,” “that was a terribly unimpressive spanking,” “Really? A _shovel?”)_.

“If you were a robot, you could get a gig on Mystery Science Theater 3000 easy,” Dean tells Cas, wiping his eyes as the credits roll.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Cas says reverently, leaning in to kiss Dean, and the next half hour is lost to a celebratory make-out session.

~*~

There was brief and half-hearted discussion earlier of making it an early night, since Dean has to leave on the 6:15 shuttle in order to make his flight (the airport is actually on St. Thomas, which means getting there involves not only the shuttle but a ferry ride), but it doesn’t happen. By the time they’re done with John Wayne it’s nearly midnight and they’ve gone almost five hours without fucking, which is the longest stretch today. Cas makes up for lost time, breaking out the handcuffs again, fastening Dean to the headboard and rimming him until he discovers what people mean when they talk about ‘seeing stars’ during sex. He probably could’ve made Dean come from that alone, but instead Cas opts to prep himself with several lubed fingers (ignoring Dean’s demands that Cas uncuff him so he can help) before sinking down onto Dean’s cock.

Dean’s heard the phrase “topping from the bottom” before, but never really fully grasped how it was possible.

Now he does.

Afterward they somehow fall into a discussion of what Dean decides to call their ‘greatest hits,’ going over the most ridiculous things they’ve done this week (the failed beach sex tops the list, of course) before getting into a debate about who ended up topping more. Dean’s of the opinion that they’re probably about even, given the fact that he was the only one topping for the first day and a half (not to mention that first glorious time in the towel shed) and Cas wouldn’t fuck him more than once that second day. Cas thinks he’s edged Dean out, and the good-natured debate becomes so convoluted as they try to reconstruct the past five days that eventually Cas breaks out the hotel’s notepad so they can actually chart it out.

Cas actually constructs a pretty impressive chart and even starts filling it out, but Dean grabs another pen off the desk, and by the time he’s done going behind Cas, illustrating each individual cell of the chart with obscene stick figures performing the acts in question, they’re both laughing too hard to finish the thing. They leave the half-completed chart abandoned on one of the bedside tables, cuddling together on the bed and getting lost in a discussion about the subjective nature of art criticism (how they got from obscene stick figures to the relative merits of various forms of modern art Dean will never quite remember), and somehow it is almost three in the morning.

Cas gently reminds Dean that he still needs to pack, and the next twenty minutes are spent in sorting out whose stuff is whose so Dean can haul his clothes back to his room. Cas comes with him because at this point they’re not even trying to pretend that they aren’t milking every second they can out of this time together. They repeat the sorting process in Dean’s room, separating out their clothes and assorted other detritus, and if one of Cas’s soft long-sleeved tees somehow ends up socked away in the bottom of Dean’s suitcase, it could easily be by accident, right?

By the time their stuff is separated out and Dean’s all packed, the clock tells them it’s shortly after four. They ought to be dead on their feet, and Dean is tired, yeah, but he’s also oddly wired. He feels almost electrified, kept alert and engaged by the knowledge that he’d never forgive himself if he dropped off now and wasted their last few hours on rest. Maybe he’ll even be able to sleep on the planes if he’s tired enough instead of practically vibrating out of his skin and drinking too much whiskey in a desperate bid not to come unglued. He really, _really_ loathes flying.

They end up back in Cas’s room by 4:30 and Cas strips Dean slowly and reverently, brushing those incredibly soft, chapped lips against every inch of flesh he exposes. Dean returns the favor eagerly, worshipping Cas’s body with his hands and mouth. They stretch out on the bed and even though their time is running out, the way they move against one another is unhurried. Cas slides into him so smoothly that it feels less like an invasion than like he’s simply returning a piece of Dean that was lost. They rock together languidly, eyes locked even more tightly than their bodies. Dean knows everything he can’t say is in his gaze and he thinks maybe he sees some of the same reflected back at him, although that could just as easily be projection.

He comes first, the friction of Cas’s stomach against his cock combined with the drag of Cas against his prostate more than enough to tumble him over the edge. Cas follows shortly thereafter, the clench of Dean’s ass dragging him along. They don’t move for long moments, even as Dean can feel Cas softening. Dean’s eyes swim a little and he blinks twice, hard.

“Come to the beach with me,” Cas says suddenly, and Dean blinks again, this time in surprise.

“I—what?”

“This—it should end where it began. Come with me. We can watch the sunrise. There’s just enough time.”

Dean does not trust his voice, so he settles for nodding his consent. Once they are dressed, Cas reaches a hand to Dean who takes it, lacing their fingers together. To the elevator, through the lobby, onto the sand, down the beach—they walk hand-in-hand, ignoring the fact that there’s no way this honors the spirit of their agreement. The sky is already beginning to lighten, a faint grey chasing away the deep black. Cas pulls him to the edge of the water, then chuckles to himself and drops Dean’s hand, kicking off his shoes and going to work. Dean watches, bemused, until he realizes that Cas is actually writing something in the smooth sand just above the waterline.

He has to squint in the still-faint light, but eventually he makes out a D, then an e, then—oh. Cas is writing his name in the sand.

Something so small shouldn’t be able to make Dean feel so much, but it does and since he can’t say anything, he settles for mirroring the gesture, writing Cas’s name in the sand beside his own. He’s just starting work on the second ‘s’ when Cas laughs, shaking his head.

“No need. Only one ‘s.’” Oddly, this is the first time that it occurs to Dean to wonder whether maybe ‘Cas’ is short for something. He wants to know, but he doesn’t ask.

He has no right to.

They back away from their names, moving a few feet back up the beach. Dean settles on the sand, seating himself and pulling Cas down, arranging them so that Cas sits with his back to Dean’s chest, his arms wrapped around the slightly shorter man. Cas places his hands atop Dean’s, tips his head into Dean’s neck. They sit together in silence as the sky continues to brighten, the grey melting into a thousand shades of orange and pink and yellow. Dean tips his head down, presses his lips to Cas’s shoulder. Feels Cas’s lips brush against his arm. The moment is perfect, melancholy and beautiful and over far too soon.

Cas shifts slightly, tipping Dean’s arm to see his watch. His fingers tighten a little on Dean’s wrist, but his voice is calm and steady when he speaks. “You have to go or you’re gonna miss the shuttle. I could—“

Dean wants to say yes, wants Cas to come with, but it’s a bad idea, and somehow he finds the strength to refuse. “No,” he tells Cas, “you were right, it should end here, where it started.” Cas pulls back just enough that he can turn his head, that they can really look at one another—and they do, searching each other’s eyes intently. Dean tries to find the words. “Cas, I—this week has been—“

This time it is Cas who interrupts, but it’s okay, because Dean doesn’t know what he would’ve said. “Me too,” Cas tells him, something that is almost a smile settling onto his face as he gazes at Dean, who tries again.

“Cas, I—“ he trails off, wanting to say the kind of goodbye that does justice to what they’ve had, to find the kind of words that will encapsulate these brief perfect days that have somehow existed out of time—but he can’t. He can’t find the right words, thinks maybe there are no such words. It’s okay, though, because Cas knows exactly how to say it, even if Dean does not.

He tilts Dean’s face just so, a single finger on his chin drawing him into the lightest kiss they’ve ever exchanged. It’s maybe the first time their lips have touched without that insane sexual chemistry flooding in and taking control. It’s not that the chemistry is gone—it’s just been overwhelmed by the weight of everything that has gone unspoken this week, that will go unspoken forever. They kiss, start to draw back, can’t do it, kiss again, then pause, forehead-to-forehead, lips bare millimeters apart, breathing the same air.

It’s not enough, but maybe nothing would be.

In the end, Dean is the one who pulls away—if only because he can feel a thousand words he mustn’t say bubbling up in his throat, threatening to spill over. He shifts until Cas is no longer nestled back against him, the loss of the warmth against his chest feeling like something profound. Cas’s fingers twine with his and Dean squeezes tightly as he gets to his feet, then turns his back. He takes a single step, then another, swallowing hard as Cas’s fingers slip out of his grasp.

He stops only once on his way up the beach, turns his head to look back, unable to stop himself. Cas sits where Dean left him, arms loosely wrapped around his bent knees, staring out at the brilliant pinks and oranges lighting up the ocean. Dean commits it to memory, the sight of this beautiful, unlikely man who should by all rights look so small against sand and ocean and sky, and yet still looms large.

_Don’t forget_ , he tells himself.

As if he ever could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Bondage, spanking, Bottom!Dean


	8. May 14 – 24, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjusting back to real life after a week in paradise is harder than Castiel expected. 
> 
> That has nothing to do with Dean. Nothing at all. And he’ll keep telling himself that right up until he believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

From the second he backs his car out of the driveway each morning until the moment he comes to a halt in his assigned parking spot outside his building at Cornell University, Castiel Novak has roughly seventeen minutes of time alone with his thoughts.

He’s timed it. On multiple occasions.

Seventeen minutes is the average. It used to be longer, before he had an assigned parking spot and had to operate at the mercy of other faculty members, taking his chances and sometimes having to drive around the lot several times before he could find a spot. That was years ago, though, and now that he’s established and well respected in his field, he doesn’t have to worry about that. Usually, he spends these seventeen minutes running through his schedule for the day, considering what he might need to prepare for meetings he has booked, thinking about the classes he has to teach, and pondering how to best assist the graduate students that he advises.

He lets his mind wander, allowing it the freedom to pick out all the errant thoughts that need attention and discard the ones that are inconsequential, and he always comes out of it with a sense of peace, of zen, that he can use as the foundation for a productive and effective day of work. Those seventeen minutes usually serve to ground him, to give him a sense of purpose that he can carry into his day.

He takes pride in his work. He takes pride in being focused and attentive. Those seventeen minutes are the cornerstone of his approach to his work, and he relies on them. They are critical.

Or at least, they used to be.

Before St. John, Castiel would spend those seventeen minutes in as much serenity as rush hour traffic can ever be said to afford, and his mind would work away at all the little details that needed to be sorted out in order to start his day with a sense of control. Now, he sits behind the wheel and grumbles irritably at every little thing that happens on his way to campus. He shouts at other drivers when they cut him off, he mutters under his breath when he gets stuck behind a bus, and he definitely, _definitely_ does not let his mind wander like he used to. That way lies destruction. He can’t afford that.

The problem is, unfortunately, that if he gives his mind the freedom to wander these days, there is one predictable place that it will inevitably end up wandering _to,_ and that’s not a distraction Castiel can afford right now. No, he made that mistake the first week he was back at work after the delay caused by Hurricane Abby, and he’s afraid to let himself tread there again. It’s bad enough that, when lying in bed (alone) at night, he finds himself yearning for things he has no right to. There’s no way he can justify letting those kinds of thoughts worm their way into his waking life.

It’s affecting his day-to-day functionality and he knows it. Without that quiet time on the way to work in the morning, Castiel is already noticing that there are appointments he isn’t quite prepared for. He sits down with a grad student and completely blanks on the questions he’d planned to ask about their thesis project. A student gives a mindless answer in class and he finds himself rolling his eyes and giving sarcastic replies, the kind he’d always think of before but never give voice to. He’s not himself, not by a long shot, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before someone calls him on it.

The effects on his work are the most tangible, the most quantifiable, but they’re certainly not the only things in his life that are suffering. Before, the solitude of his home was a comfort. He enjoys the ability to sit quietly in his own space, to wind down his evenings with a book and a glass of wine, and he’s never before begrudged the fact that there’s no one else there when he shuts out the lights. The bed seems too large now. There’s too much empty space beside him, a vacancy he never felt a pressing need to fill before but now finds himself acutely aware of. It’s too quiet, something he never minded before, but now he would give nearly anything to have that silence broken by the sound of someone else’s breathing, someone else’s voice. There shouldn’t be such a profound impact on his life from such a short affair, but there it is, and Castiel feels that he is irrevocably changed.

The nights are the worst. When he closes his eyes and tries to settle into sleep, there are no distractions to keep his mind from playing out the torturously beautiful memories that are the only souvenirs he brought home with him. When he’s just about to drift off, sometimes he can almost believe he feels the warmth of Dean’s body curled up next to him, and suddenly whatever claim sleep had on him is relinquished. Then, because he has no choice or because it’s easier to punish himself than fight it, he lies awake until the wee hours of the morning, remembering what Dean’s lips tasted like, how he sounded when he moaned the shortened version of Castiel’s name, how he looked with his wrists bound in Castiel’s cuffs.

He should have known better. It was doomed from the start. How could he have been foolish enough as to believe he could get so close to someone so remarkable and then walk away without getting hurt? Castiel didn’t mean to let himself fall for Dean so hard, so fast, but it’s clear now that he never stood a chance.

Long before Anna and Inias planned their wedding on the island of St. John, there was a time when Anna told Castiel everything. Of all the members of their oddly blended family, neither of them had ever had a closer confidante than they found in each other. Truthfully, Anna’s the only one of them that he feels any strong desire to stay in touch with. Gabriel’s alright, of course, but it wouldn’t matter if Castiel didn’t think so. He’s just as likely to show up unannounced and insert himself into Castiel’s life as he is to call or send a text message, so falling out of touch with his half-brother has never been an option. But he’s always had a connection with Anna, and when things first started getting serious with Inias, it was Castiel she called first.

 _Being in love is like being chained to a comet,_ she’d told him, speaking dreamily. _It’s a little scary, and definitely exciting, and I feel just so alive._ Castiel recalls making noncommittal sounds of agreement pretending he understood what it was like, but he didn’t. He’d never been in love like that and at the time he couldn’t imagine he ever would be. He’s had relationships before, ones that mattered a great deal to him, but what Anna and Inias found in each other, Castiel couldn’t imagine finding for himself.

This is nothing like that. It’s not like being chained to a comet. It’s much more like being buried under a mountain. It’s a weight he carries with him everywhere. He doesn’t draw strength from it. It saps the strength from his every day, wears him out and exhausts him, drags him down. He knew he was making a connection with Dean while they spent those five days together, knew it was having a profound effect on him, but he didn’t realize how much he’d allowed himself to grow attached until Dean suddenly wasn’t there any longer.

Watching him walk off that beach as the sun rose over them, in that same spot where they’d first met, Castiel struggled not to show any sign of emotion. He wanted more than anything to beg Dean to stay, to call out after him and trade names and numbers and fight to make some kind of connection they could take back to their real lives.

They couldn’t, though. That was never the deal. So instead, he forced himself to stare out over the surf for as long as he could bear, turning only once to glance after Dean, only once he was far enough away that if he were to look back at the same time, he’d never see the pain on Castiel’s face.

Dean didn’t look back.

Castiel’s original plan had been to stay until the last possible shuttle before his flight. He could have napped a little, read a book, taken his time making sure his things were packed neatly. It would’ve been very leisurely. The second he stepped back into his hotel room though, that plan fell apart.

The room had never felt so empty, not even at the first moment he set his bags down after checking in. Dean’s absence made the space feel sparse and unwelcoming. He knew immediately he’d never be able to settle in that room. So instead, he waited just long enough to be certain that Dean would have already boarded his own flight by the time he reached the terminal and checked out of the hotel where they’d shared five whirlwind days of sex and—no. Just sex. Nothing more.

He thought he saw Dean just once, as he stood in line at a coffee shop waiting his turn to buy an overpriced latte and a dry muffin. The plaid shirt on his back was nearly identical to the one Dean had worn on the beach that first night, and there was an unmistakeable bow to his legs that had Castiel ready to call out to him despite all his better judgement. But then the man had turned around, and his face looked nothing like Dean’s.

Castiel’s brain was just playing cruel tricks on him. It seemed he’d never be able to get Dean off his mind.

He’d been sure that once he got home, things would get better. He’d fall back into routine and he’d get over the loss.

Clearly, he was wrong.

He sits down for lunch with the department chair on Tuesday, a meeting he requested nearly a week ago and that only managed to find its way onto their respective calendars now, and promptly forgets what he’d even requested the meeting for. This kind of thing never happens to Castiel. Or at least, it didn’t used to.

“So what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Hannah asks him shortly after their meals are ordered, and Castiel stares at her blankly for just about a heartbeat too long to play off. The lepidopterist just smiles kindly at him, the tiny butterfly earrings she always wears swaying as she tilts her head to the side in question. She’s patient with him, as she is with everyone, but it makes Castiel feel remarkably small. Never before in his academic career has he required that kind of consideration from either instructors or colleagues, and it’s a special kind of shame that colors his cheeks as he finally collects himself.

“Oh yes,” he answers quickly. “The entomology conference in South Dakota in July. Are you attending?” He’s been meaning for weeks to get Hannah’s thoughts on the paper he’s scheduled to present, a paper on some hypothesized causes of colony collapse that he’s quite proud of but still wants to revise a little. Even before his unexpectedly extended vacation he’d been anticipating this meeting, and the moment it arrived, he completely forgot what he’d even wanted to discuss.

Hannah, of course, does have thoughts, and the remainder of their lunch meeting goes smoothly. Castiel still carries the frustration into the rest of his day, and it only adds to the mounting emotional cost the whole ordeal has had on him. By the time he pulls back into his driveway that evening, seventeen minutes after leaving his assigned parking spot outside the office, he’s no closer to regaining the sense of calm his commute usually gives him.

There’s leftover pasta in the fridge. He eats it cold, caring more for nourishment than flavor and enjoyment. Lately, Castiel doesn’t even bother sitting down to eat. He leans against the counter, his hip jutting out in a poor imitation of nonchalance, Tupperware container perched precariously in one hand as he stabs little pieces of tortellini with a fork. The whole time he’s eating, he can’t help but think about the meals he and Dean shared, all the different fare the resort had to offer. The cold pasta is remarkably bland by comparison, the jarred sauce too plain to excite any kind of response. He’d enjoy it more with a glass of wine, he supposes, but that would involve rousing himself to care about whether he even enjoys it.

He’s got papers to grade this evening, and if he’s more liberal with the red pen than usual, well, maybe he’s been too lenient in the past. It takes considerably longer than it normally would to get through the stack of printed pages he tucked into his briefcase. Castiel is usually remarkably focused, able to drill his attention down to the work in front of him and approach it with dedication. He marks quickly and efficiently, calculates the grades, and moves on.

Not tonight though. Tonight, he gets bogged down in grammatical errors that prevent him from following the writer’s meaning. He gets hung up on odd word choices. He reads the same sentence over and over without realizing he’s stalled. Eventually, Castiel is able to finish marking the papers but it takes him nearly twice as long as it would usually, and he’s sure there’s things he would ordinarily have picked up on that completely escaped notice. Still, it’s killed the majority of his evening, and now there’s nothing left to do except climb into bed and pray for a peaceful sleep.

Once the lights are out and Cas is safe in the warm embrace of his bed, the thoughts he’s struggled to keep at bay all day find their way to the surface, little tendrils of memory taking over and filling his mind. He closes his eyes, but all he sees is Dean’s face, seeming so close that he imagines he could reach out and touch it if he just lifted his hand, drag fingertips down the line of his jaw and draw him in close for a kiss. Castiel remembers all too well what it feels like to have Dean’s lips pressed to his own, how passionately he kisses and how free he is with his touches. He recalls with perfect clarity the green of Dean’s eyes, the pattern of freckles across his nose, the way his lip curls up in a quirky half-smile.

Other nights, Castiel has battled against these thoughts, tried to keep them out of his mind so he can fall into the respite of sleep, but tonight he doesn’t have the energy in him. It’s too hard to fight them, and it seems his mind wants nothing more than to torture him with the memory of something he wants so badly but cannot have. So just this once, for the first time since he got home, Cas gives his mind full licence to wander and basks in the barrage of images thrown at him. He drowns in the memory of Dean working him open that first night in the towel shack, the way his own limbs quivered with anticipation as Dean touched him so intimately. He sighs audibly thinking of how it felt to sink into Dean’s body, knowing he was the first ever to be with him in that fashion, the first to show Dean how good it could feel to be filled up and taken apart like that. He feels a tightness in his chest as he thinks about all the times it felt like he was truly getting to know Dean, all the times it felt like he could open up and share details about himself if it weren’t for their agreement to keep things devoid of attachments.

The whole point of that agreement was to prevent this, exactly this. Castiel shouldn’t be lying here staring at the ceiling, suffering in silence the loss of something that was never his to begin with, but he is, and it aches. He misses what they had. He misses _Dean_ , and he knows he has no right to but it doesn’t matter. The heart, in all its infinite wisdom, wants what it wants, and no handshake agreement will ever trump that.

He’s thought, in darker moments, about what it would take to reach out and try to find Dean. He’s got no idea where to begin, and even if he did, they had an arrangement. They had an agreement. Even if Castiel were able to track him down, there’s no guarantee that Dean would want to _be_ found.

Castiel has a hard time believing that, even as he tries to reason with himself. He knows the way Dean touched him, the way Dean looked at him that last morning on the beach. He knows that the look in Dean’s eyes was a mirror image of his own, and he knows the pain reflected there wasn’t an illusion. Without ever having it confirmed in words, Castiel is sure that parting ways hurt Dean just as much as it hurt him. Maybe Dean is having an easier time moving on than Castiel is, but he can’t believe Dean left without any difficulty at all. And in any case, Castiel knows his own mind well enough to tell that he can’t keep ignoring this. It’s going to eat him from the inside if he doesn’t do something about it. Maybe nothing will come of it. There’s no way to know for sure without trying, but his mind is made up.

Castiel can’t keep lying to himself any longer.

He has to find Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Just the angst


	9. May 14 – 25, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s fine. He’s just tired. Flying sucks, and it’s way colder at home than it ever was in St John. He doesn’t miss Cas and he’s certainly not harboring any kind of feelings about what they had. 
> 
> If he was, though, it would go a long way toward explaining his behavior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

He’s okay for the first three days. He really is.

Okay, no he’s not. That’s a lie. But he _fakes_ it okay for the first three days.

He had the entire fourteen-hour trip to get his head on straight, after all. It was actually the first time Dean’s ever been able to get on a plane without either drinking himself halfway into oblivion or barely avoiding a panic attack. That’s not to say he didn’t avail himself of the free liquor in first class (God bless that airline employee for the upgrades, by the way). He definitely did, but he did so halfheartedly. It was hard not to remember the last time he drank—mimosas over brunch with Cas.

Maybe that’s part of why Dean doesn’t freak out nearly as much as usual. He’s every bit as miserable as he always is when he flies, but this time the misery stems less from existential terror at the possibility of plummeting several miles to his death in a glorified tin can, and more from the fact that he’s just walked away from Cas forever. Just walked away from something that, underneath all the resistance and self-deception, he knows was very special.

Of course, he doesn’t admit all that to himself. Nope. Dean’s a master of denial, has been for pretty much his entire life, and he avails himself liberally of that skill on his way back to Sioux Falls and once he gets home.

He falls into bed almost the instant he walks in the door. He started travelling at what basically amounts to 5:30 in the morning in Sioux Falls time, and doesn’t get home until nearly eleven at night on Friday. He didn’t sleep at all last night, and he sure as hell didn’t get anything in the way of real rest on any of the flights or layovers. He crashes hard and doesn’t wake up for nearly twelve hours, grateful that he called Bobby during one of those layovers to let him know he wouldn’t make it to work till the afternoon.

He sleeps really fucking well. It’s a blessing—he needed it badly.

It’s the last solid sleep he gets for a while.

~*~

He’s only at work with the guys for four hours that first day, and he spends much of it fielding playful teasing from Benny and Garth about how awful it must’ve been to be trapped in paradise for an extra five days. Dean plays it off, vaguely talking about lazy days spent sleeping in and lying on the beach. They’re jealous as fuck when they learn that FEMA’s picking up the tab for those five extra days that travel was impossible (Dean was just unbelievably grateful when he and Cas got letters under their doors the second night informing them of this). He’s still on the hook for a chunk of his incidentals, but considering what the damage could’ve been, he’s not stressing about it.

Anyway, he gives as good as he gets, demanding to know whether Bobby had them working on Little Tikes cars without Dean there to supervise them and make sure they don’t fuck anything else more complicated up. Honestly, if it weren’t for the messy-haired, gravelly-voiced elephant in the room, it would be really good to be back to work with these guys. Dean’s a lucky dude; he loves his job. He loves his coworkers. He had his doubts when Bobby promoted him to head mechanic a couple years back—Benny and Garth are no slouches at what they do, why Dean rather than either of them?—but it turns out he’s really pretty good at directing traffic in the shop, and it’s freed Bobby up to handle more of the administrative side of things (not to mention tinkering around in the salvage yard the rest of them try to avoid at all costs).

Garth and Benny head out around 4:30. Theoretically they could’ve left earlier, it’s Saturday and the shop closes at two, but everybody’s here because they love what they do. None of them are just punching a time-clock. They invite him to join them for drinks at The Roadhouse later, but he waves them off, telling them he’s way too tired from his 16-hour travel day. They take him at his word and with a little more ribbing about his extended vacation, bid him farewell with promises to see him on Monday morning. Dean stays for another several hours, losing himself under the hood of a restoration. Bobby pokes his head in at close to eight and tells Dean to ‘getcher ass home, ya idjit.’ You don’t argue with Bobby when he sounds like that, so Dean sheds his coveralls and does as he’s told. He’s gotta shower, unpack, and start his laundry when he gets there, and that keeps him busy for a while longer. He manages to repress the fuck out of everything, and it doesn’t come crashing back down on him until he’s putting away the remnants of the pizza he ordered and glances at the clock.

It’s just shy of eleven on Saturday night.

It hits him like a punch to the gut. It’ll be nearly midnight in St. John, and that means it’s been almost exactly a week since Cas saved his life on a windswept beach.

He met Cas a week ago, and lost him a day and a half ago, and how is it possible that entire decades passed in one short week? How is it possible that one little week could make the world look so different?

He doesn’t realize his eyes have gotten a little watery until he blinks and his vision smears. Cursing himself for a fool, he dives back into the fridge, trading the leftover pizza for another beer. And another one after that. And then a third.

He makes it through a six pack before he passes out on the couch.

He sleeps like shit.

~*~

He calls Sam and Jess first thing the next morning. They’ll be getting home from their honeymoon tomorrow and they want to take him out to dinner, hear about his hurricane adventure and tell him all about their week. Dean agrees to do dinner on Wednesday and offers to pick them up from the airport.

Honestly, he never would’ve expected them to decide to settle in Sioux Falls of all places, especially after they both spent eight years at Stanford (and don’t get him started on what it’s like to have a brother who’s a Stanford-educated lawyer and a sister-in-law who’s a Stanford-educated pediatric surgeon when you’re a high school drop-out), but he’s grateful as hell Sam decided being near family was more important than joining one of the many high-powered California firms that headhunted him.

With Mom dead in the fire when Sam was just a baby and Dad lost to a drunk driver (not himself, by some miracle, considering the number of DUIs he racked up) back when Sam was finishing up his undergrad, all they’ve got left is each other—and Bobby, of course, who was more of a Dad to them than Dad ever really was. Jess’s parents are still happily married and living in—what was it? Delaware? Virginia? Something like that—and her older brother and two younger sisters are scattered around the country. She gets along with them well, but nothing like Sam and Dean’s bond. In the end, Jess was the one who delicately suggested to Sam that maybe they could think about moving back to Sioux Falls. She confessed to Dean once, in strictest confidence, that Sam broke down crying when she mentioned it. He’d wanted to come home, but had feared that she wouldn’t even consider moving to nowheresville, South Dakota.

Anyway, Dean stays close to them in more than the physical sense. Jess has become as much a little sister to him as Sam is a little brother, and having them so nearby is one of the best things in his life. It’ll be good to see them again, even if he feels like he’s a whole different person than he was when he bid them farewell last Friday night as they left for their honeymoon.

The rest of the day is spent resolutely not thinking about Cas.

Okay, fine, the rest of the day is spent failing to not think about Cas.

He tinkers under the hood of his beloved Impala for a couple hours, giving her an unnecessary oil change, checking everything, recalibrating things that probably don’t need it. He’d go into the shop and get back to work on that restoration if he didn’t know that Bobby gets a notification on his phone when the alarm system is disarmed, and would show up to scold him and chase him back out of the shop posthaste.

By early afternoon there’s nothing else he can even pretend needs doing under her hood, so he washes and waxes her by hand, pausing long enough to play a quick game of catch with the two boys who live next door. They’re good kids, a nice family all around. Once their mom calls them back in, Dean finishes up with his Baby and tromps inside for a shower and a late lunch of cold pizza. As he showers, he wonders whether Cas plays catch with the kids in his neighborhood—or if he’s into sports at all. Obviously he’s in killer shape (The man has a six pack—Dean knows, he counted it with his tongue. Twice.) but that could be accomplished any number of ways.

Then he remembers that it’s none of his business and it doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s never gonna see Cas again.

He’s halfway through the remaining pizza when it occurs to him that pizza is one meal he and Cas never shared. What does Cas like on his pizza? Dean bets it’s something weird, like pineapple, but maybe it’s—fuck. He’s doing it again.

Suddenly his appetite is gone. He pitches the rest of the pizza and calls up Garth, who’s all about going out for a beer.

Dean picked Garth over Benny precisely because once you get the kid talking, he’ll go for days without any help. Sure enough, Garth babbles his way through several hours and seven beers (two for him, five for Dean. Little dude’s a hell of a lightweight), and once Dean gets home it’s just late enough that he can get away with calling it a night. He has to work early, anyway.

He sleeps like shit.

~*~

Dean’s pretty sure he’s a little quieter than usual on Monday, but it’s not enough that anybody notices. He’s still hard at work on the restoration—another one from a repeat client who won’t let anybody but Dean touch his wheels—so it’s easier than usual to avoid most human interaction.

When he waves the guys’ usual banter off good-naturedly, telling them he needs to focus, they take him at face value. You don’t fuck around with expensive restorations. Dean’s really getting a name for himself as the guy to take classic cars to, and it makes sense that he wouldn’t want to risk fucking that up.

Of course, his need to be left alone has fuckall to do with any concern about messing up the job—he just doesn’t especially want to interact.

The highlight of his day should be picking up Sam and Jess. He loves the hell out of them, and this’ll be the first time he’s seen them since the wedding. They tumble out of the airport, tanned and happy and relaxed. Dean exchanges the expected hugs, messes up Sam’s hair (also expected), and lets them babble contentedly about how awesome their week was. It should be the best part of his day—but somehow, seeing the way they look at each other, the mutual adoration in their eyes? It doesn’t fill him with the same warmth it generally does. Yeah, he’s still happy that his little brother is spending the rest of his life with a woman that he adores (and one who’s pretty fucking awesome in her own right), but seeing how in love they are suddenly _hurts_ in a way it never has before.

Dean tells himself firmly that it doesn’t have anything to do with Cas, that it’s just a weird little moment of weakness.

He almost believes it.

When he drops them off, Jess reminds him that they’re scheduled to do dinner on Wednesday, and Dean tells her he wouldn’t miss it. He’s already thinking of ways to get out of it.

He sleeps like shit.

~*~

Tuesday is the worst day yet.

Everything reminds him of Cas. _Everything._ The dumbest little things—the fucking bar of soap in the bathroom at work has him remembering poking fun at Cas for having mango-scented body wash. Cas had responded, with great dignity, that he didn’t hear Dean bitching about the way he smelled. Dean can still see Cas’s playfully affronted face in his mind, and finds himself grinning at the mirror until he remembers that he’s never gonna see that face again. Not in playful affront, not in sleepy confusion, not in lust, not with that oddly sweet, shy smile.

Dean’s smile has melted into a scowl by the time he stomps out of the bathroom.

A customer brings in a car with a faulty electronic transmission control unit, and as he’s explaining to her what the problem is, he finds himself wondering whether Cas has taken his car in yet. That fucking defect can be dangerous. What if he loses power in highway traffic and gets hit by a truck? He could be killed. Did Dean do a good enough job of emphasizing how serious this is? Did he transmit enough urgency when they talked about it? What if Cas decides the repairs can wait and ends up getting into a horrible accident? He could _die,_ and it would be all Dean’s fault.

He helps the customer arrange to have her car towed to the dealership so they can fix it (her car’s still under warranty, just like Cas’s must be), then trudges back into the shop. When Garth teases him about giving away a potentially lucrative job, Dean sneers at him so derisively (Singer Auto doesn’t ever fleece customers—Garth and Benny would both have done the exact same thing Dean did and he knows it; Garth was just poking fun) that Garth deflates like a balloon.

Dean mutters an apology and stomps back to the restoration.

He works through lunch, stays late, and doesn’t leave till Bobby pops his head in again to kick him out.

At home, he finishes another six pack and eats hot pockets. He hasn’t even gone to the grocery store since he got back—he can’t seem to muster up the will, and he’s pretty sure even if he did, he wouldn’t have the energy to cook.

He sleeps like shit.

Again.

~*~

Wednesday is supposed to be dinner with Sam and Jess. He manages to get out of it with a ridiculous excuse about coming down with a sore throat. Jess works with lots of immune-suppressed kids, so it’s important that she not contract anything she could pass on to them. She makes Dean swear he’ll go to the doctor if it’s not better by Friday and reschedule with them if it is.

Instead of a warm evening full of laughter, good food, and great company, Dean spends the night on his couch in the dark, drinking too much whiskey and channel surfing endlessly.

He leaves the television on some random channel when he gets up to take a leak. When he gets back to the couch, a John Wayne movie has started up. It hits him like a punch to the gut, and he actually has to hunt for his breath while he scrambles across the room to turn the television off. It takes him a minute to find the right button (whiskey reflexes strike again), but finally the screen darkens and the room fades into silence. Dean stands for a minute in the dim room, staring stupidly at the remote in his hand.

He doesn’t remember making a conscious decision to do so, but suddenly he’s throwing the remote against the wall hard enough that the plastic casing cracks.

He leaves the wreckage where it falls and slouches off to bed.

He sleeps like shit.

What else is new?

~*~

Thursday is even worse.

He snarls at Garth twice and dresses Benny down viciously for a completely harmless error that will require no more than five minutes to fix. They give him a wide berth after that, and it’s not till the end of the day that he forces himself to go apologize to them both. They’re good guys and good friends; they don’t give him shit for turning into an asshole supervisor. They accept his apology readily and invite him to go to The Roadhouse with them for a burger.

He ought to accept. Go have a few drinks with them, shoot the shit, play a couple games of pool—it could be a really nice evening. It’s what they do at least once or twice a week every week. They’ve been doing it for years. Not to mention that it’d be a nice gesture after he was such a shit to them all day.

He really ought to accept.

Instead, he lies and tells them he’s got dinner with Sam and Jess.

At home, he doesn’t even dare turn on the television—and not just because he doesn’t have a working remote. He doesn’t drink. He saw John Winchester break too many things in drunken rages to want to walk down that same path. He’s afraid of his own temper getting away from him at this point, even sober. He sure as fuck can’t afford to drink while he’s in this kind of towering rage. So—no television and no alcohol. He sits on the couch with the lights off, and he flatly refuses to look directly at the cause of his foul mood, flatly refuses to think about the face and voice that will not fucking stop popping into his head at the most inopportune of moments.

He figures at the least, maybe not drinking will give him a solid night’s sleep. He knows alcohol fucks up your sleep cycle. That’s gotta be what the problem has been. He’s just been drinking too much. Tonight, stone cold sober, he’ll finally sleep solidly.

He falls into bed early.

He sleeps like shit.

~*~

On Friday he tells himself his mood (which is somehow getting fouler by the day, and how is that even possible?) is purely a result of not sleeping, and that as a grown-ass adult, he can keep his temper in check. He can put on a smile and do his job and be nice to his coworkers and act like a human being.

His resolve lasts until he discovers that somebody drank the last cup of coffee in the break room and didn’t make another pot.

It had to be Garth. It’s always fucking Garth.

He doesn’t do it on purpose. He always means to start up another pot, he just forgets by the time he’s done adding ten gallons of cream and six cups of sugar to his mug to dilute the half inch of coffee that can still somehow fit. It’s always a mistake, so usually Benny and Dean roll their eyes at each other and make the coffee themselves.

Not today.

Today Dean storms out of the breakroom, empty coffee pot in hand, roaring for Garth to get his ass over here. By the time he’s done, the kid looks like he might be on the verge of tears. Dean feels like a piece of shit, but he still can’t seem to make himself apologize. Instead he stomps back into the break room to make the fucking pot of coffee himself before burying himself under a hood for the rest of the day.

And if he slams car doors and puts away tools with more force than strictly necessary, at least nobody says shit to him about it.

By the end of the day, Garth and Benny are going out of their way to avoid him. Poor Garth actually flinches anytime Dean walks in his general direction, even though Dean hasn’t said two words to him since the coffee debacle. Under ordinary circumstances, Benny would demand to know what bug had crawled up Dean’s ass. Today, he leaves it alone entirely.

As Dean locks the place up for the night, he glances into the salvage lot next door. Bobby stands in a small huddle with Benny and Garth. Dean bets he knows what they’re talking about.

Whatever. Fuck ‘em.

At home, he orders Chinese. The driver takes forever to arrive and for probably the first time in Dean’s life, he gives a shitty tip in retribution. It’s probably not the driver’s fault—it’s probably not anybody’s fault, not really, but Dean loathes the entire world so much right now that he’s just fine with taking it out on anyone who happens to cross his path.

The kid slouches away, looking miserable. Dean slams the door and goes back inside, but he can’t bring himself to actually eat the meal. Like earlier, with Garth, he feels wretched about how shittily he behaved, but he’s still too ornery to do anything about it or make it right.

He stuffs the nearly untouched food in the fridge, ignores several calls from Sam and one from Jess, knowing they want to check on his ‘sore throat’ and probably reschedule dinner. He sends a text to Jess (who is less likely to give him shit) telling her that he’s okay, just really tired from a long week and the aftereffects of jet lag. She urges him to get some rest in her response. Dean laughs grimly. He fucking wishes.

He actually gives in and takes some Nyquil by 9:30, figuring that with that on board he’s bound to get a good night’s rest. His mood will be better in the morning. He’ll have unwound enough to actually apologize to Garth and stop acting like a monster. Everything will look better in the morning.

He sleeps like shit.

~*~

He gets to the shop early to open the next morning (and make the first pot of coffee himself). Might as well get some extra work done since he can’t sleep, right?

It’s a nice theory, but it doesn’t end up happening. Just as he goes to fit the key into the lock, the door flies open. Bobby stands there, staring Dean down, framed in the doorway. Dean knows perfectly well what this is about and isn’t especially surprised—he just can’t deal with it right now. He doesn’t think he can get his ass handed to him by Bobby and manage to keep his mouth shut.

“I’ll apologize to Garth, okay?” Dean says, his voice more sullen than he intends. “Now let me in, I have a fuckload to do today.”

“No,” Bobby says simply, “You ain’t coming anywhere near my shop until you get your head on straight, boy.”

Wait, what?

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bobby tells him, “I love you like a son and you damn well know it, but I can’t have you abusing my employees—who are supposed to be your friends, by the way.”

“I said I’d apologize,” Dean says, but it comes out as more of a snarl than he intends, and that probably doesn’t help his case any.

“Yeah, just like the first five times you jumped down Garth’s throat or tore Benny a new one for no damn reason. But then you’d do it again. Garth is scared to come within twenty feet of you. Do you have any idea how many hugs that kid needs before you can get him to stop crying?”

Fuck. He made Garth _cry?_ Dean guesses that shouldn’t be much of a surprise. Garth’s sensitive, they all know it. Still, it hits him like a punch in the gut. Jesus, what kind of asshole makes Garth Fitzgerald IV cry? He’s the nicest guy on the planet, wouldn’t hurt a fly, and Dean’s been nothing but awful to him. He knows this, he feels terrible, and it still doesn’t change his desire to kick a wall, punch someone, curse at anything that moves, and break something fragile.

“Look, Bobby, I know I’ve been on edge, but—“

“On _edge,_ boy? Holy understatements.”

“—but I’ll get it under control. Now c’mon, let me in.”

“Oh, I see, you think I’m just makin' a point. No, I mean it. You ain’t comin' in here today. Not Monday, either. Instead you’re gonna go get her.”

“I’m—wait, what?”

“Go get her, ya idjit. I’m old, I ain’t blind. Or stupid. You came back from vacation sadder and happier than I’ve seen you in years. Only thing makes a man that happy is meetin’ someone, only thing makes a man that sad is losing ‘em. So you met someone, and you fell for her, and now you’re mad at the world cause you were too dumb to admit you’d fallen in love with a vacation fling. So get the hell out of here and go get her.”

Maybe it’s because Bobby is completely fucking right, but Dean has the sudden and uncontrollable urge to do something that’s sure to shut him the fuck up about this permanently. If he wasn’t so pissed off and sad and generally wretched, there’s no way in hell he would ever have worked up the nerve for this reveal. He’s miserable, though, and Bobby is kicking him out of the one place that he can actually distract himself, so he nastily wants to send the old man reeling, even if it means Bobby never looks at him the same way again.

“Oh yeah?” Dean sneers, “It’s a _him,_ Bobby. That change your advice any? I didn’t meet a _her,_ I met a _him.”_ He stands there, nearly panting, waiting for the hammer to fall. Waiting for Bobby to tell him to get lost permanently, to look at him with disgust or shock or—

But he doesn’t. None of that happens. Bobby just looks at him, level and unperturbed. Stares at him for a good five seconds, until Dean’s about ready to start squirming. When his voice does break out, there’s no disgust or surprise in it, just the familiar grouchy exasperation Dean’s heard from him a million times before now. “I don’t care if it’s a goddamn _iguana,_ son, go get him before all three of us murder you and hide the body under a junker out back. I’ll see you on Tuesday, and only if you’ve screwed your head on straight enough that five minutes with you won’t send Garth to therapy.”

Before Dean can do more than goggle at him in astonishment, Bobby has grumpily slammed the door in his face and locked it.

Dean stares at the closed door for at least two minutes, trying to figure out what’s more astounding: the fact that he just came out to Bobby, the fact that the man didn’t look remotely surprised by the revelation, or just how many fucks Bobby clearly fails to give about the gender of the person consuming Dean’s every waking thought.

It’s funny; in Dean’s secret fantasies about finding Cas and sweeping him off his unnaturally sexy feet (and yeah, okay, fine, he’s been secretly fantasizing about doing just that), Dean hasn’t once worried about what all of his loved ones would say. He hasn’t once stressed about what they would think, Sam and Jess and Bobby and Garth and Benny and Ash and Ellen and Jo and—fuck, everyone else. It didn’t even register on his radar—the fuck would he care about the rest of it, if he had Cas in his arms?

Almost immediately, he steps on those thoughts. Pummels them into oblivion. That kind of thinking is risky as hell, dangerously close to admitting something to himself that he’s worked really fucking hard to avoid. So instead of facing it, he goes ahead and proves himself to be the idjit Bobby accused him of being. He represses the shit out of it.

When he gets home, the boys next door are just coming out and beg him to play with them. It’s a distraction, and Dean desperately needs those, so he goes ahead and plays catch, then tag, staying outside with them until their mom calls them in for lunch. She invites Dean to join, but he declines. He still doesn’t trust himself to interact with other adults.

He finally goes grocery shopping that night and throws himself into preparing a meal that’s practically fucking gourmet, because he’s running out of ways to keep himself occupied.

He goes to bed early yet again, but he doesn’t have a lot of hope that tonight will miraculously be the night he drifts off easily.

He’s right.

He sleeps like shit.

~*~

He gets out of bed three times on Sunday. Twice to use the bathroom and once to get the Chinese food out of the fridge.

He eats it cold.

He sleeps like shit.

~*~

He forces himself to get out of bed on Monday. In a burst of frenetic energy, he cleans the house from top to bottom, does laundry, mows the lawn, drops off his wedding tux for dry cleaning. By the time he’s done, he’s tired enough to order take-out again.

He doesn’t really want Chinese, but he orders it anyway—for one very specific reason. When the driver comes to the door with his order (the same kid, thankfully), he’s fairly sullen. Dean doesn’t begrudge him that, figures he’s lucky if he didn’t spit in his food, honestly. He pays for his meal, tips the kid twenty bucks, and apologizes for taking a bad day out on him.

He actually gives Dean a hug. Dean’s a little too surprised to do much more than pat him awkwardly on the back. As the kid walks back to his car, Dean wonders whether Garth knows he has a younger kindred spirit delivering Chinese take-out. He resolves to make it right with Garth and Benny tomorrow. It’s not their fault that he’s a hot mess.

He resolutely refuses to think about what Bobby told him. He’s just not ready to have that conversation with himself. Instead, he eats his Chinese food—warm this time, at least—and climbs into bed with a book. He reads the same page seven times before giving up and turning off the light.

Surprise, surprise: he sleeps like shit.

~*~

Tuesday’s the day Bobby told him he was allowed to come back to work, thank God, cause he was gonna lose his mind if he didn’t have something to do.

He stops off on the way to the shop and picks up a dozen chocolate eclairs (Benny) and a bouquet of daisies (Garth). It’d be weird to buy flowers for another guy (well; another guy he doesn’t have feelings for, he can think of one guy he wouldn’t mind giving flowers—but he’s not thinking about that) if it was anybody else, but it’s _Garth,_ and he fucking loves daisies. Dean delivers both gifts with his most abject apologies, being intentionally vague about the causes of his bad mood. It’s about the best he can do for peace offerings, but the guys accept them readily. Garth’s hug lasts so long that if it were anyone else, Dean would think they were hitting on him. Benny tells him quietly that if he ever needs someone to talk to, he just has to say the word. Dean claps him on the back and smiles, but can’t quite look him in the eye. Benny doesn’t push him.

Back at home that evening, Dean is putting his laundry away when he inadvertently finds the long-sleeved t-shirt whose existence he’s been ignoring since he got home and tossed it into a drawer. He almost slams the drawer back shut, but something stops him, makes him pull the soft cotton out. Cursing himself for a fool, Dean lifts it to his nose.

It still smells like Cas. It smells like mangoes and sunshine and honey and fucking hell, is he crying? He’s crying. Awesome.

Dean puts the shirt on and crawls into bed even though it’s barely 7:30. He smells Cas all around him, as if he could roll over and pull the man’s warm weight into his arms. The fact that he can’t shouldn’t hurt so much. The wide, empty, cold bed shouldn’t hurt so much. Nothing should fucking hurt so much. They had an arrangement. A few days, sex, no identifying details, no strings, no feelings.

But it’s no use.

Dean has violated the spirit and the letter of their agreement, because there are feelings. There are attachments. Because he’s gone and done the craziest, stupidest thing he could possibly have done.

He’s fallen in love with Cas.

And now that he finally allows himself to really think about it, allows himself to really remember—he wonders whether maybe he’s not alone in that. He thinks just maybe Cas was feeling some of the same things. The way Cas looked at him sometimes, when he thought Dean wasn’t looking—there’s no way it was just a throwaway fuck to him.

Finally, lying in bed and staring blankly up at the ceiling, Dean reaches the conclusion he should’ve come to a week and a half ago.

He expects to spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, as usual, but almost immediately after coming to a decision, Dean’s out for the count.

He sleeps like a baby.

Finally.

~*~

He wakes up the next morning refreshed at last, and the fact that he was finally able to get some real rest just reinforces the decision he’s made. And he can’t even credit himself with the idea.

What it comes down to is simple: Bobby’s right, of course. That old bastard is always fucking right.

It’s time for Dean to stop fooling himself.

He has to find Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Just more angst


	10. May 25, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel has a lot of skills. He’s a brilliant scientist, he’s witty and clever, passionate and caring and thoughtful. What he is not, unfortunately, is even a little bit talented at subtlety or subterfuge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

Deciding you’re going to do a thing and actually accomplishing it are entirely different matters. Objectively, Castiel knows this. Deciding to come out of the closet was markedly easier than actually announcing his sexuality to the people he cared about. Coming to the conclusion that he wanted to pursue a career in academia and turn his love of bees into a research and teaching career was orders of magnitude easier than actually getting his degrees and finding a teaching position. Figuring out that his parents were toxic people that he needed to have very little contact with if he wanted to be happy was so much simpler than actually cutting them out of his life. Sure, it was the right call, and once he finally did it he was far happier than he could have imagined. Seeing them again at Anna’s wedding just reinforced that. His mother, bless her heart, was never going to stop trying to push him towards “dropping this gay thing” so he could find his way towards her idea of happiness, and his father was just downright hateful. But actually doing the thing, tapering off communication and distancing himself from them both physically and emotionally, that took doing, and it was several years between the time he decided it was the right thing for him and the time he finally started to feel like he’d gotten out from under their thumbs.

The same goes for the decision to find Dean.

It’s all well and good that Castiel has realized this is what he wants, no, _needs._ It’s a very logical conclusion, and since he made the decision, he hasn’t had a moment of doubt. What he also hasn’t had, unfortunately, is success. This can mostly be attributed to the fact that he hasn’t got the first clue how to even go about accomplishing his goal.

Castiel is resolute. Methodical. Once he sets his mind to something, he’ll pursue it to the ends of the earth. Various people throughout the years have told him this is either an admirable trait or a rather annoying personality flaw. None of that is important, because it’s just who Castiel is. He doesn’t give up. And he has no intention of doing so now, but at this point, he’s at a loss. All he has is a first name and the memory of a face. It’s nothing searchable. Nothing actionable.

He’s no closer to resolving this than he was before he ever decided to do it.

It sits on his mind nearly every waking moment from the second he comes to the conclusion. It does feel freeing to stop denying what he’s feeling, and at least now acknowledging it doesn’t feel like opening the door to wallowing in his own sorrow. He has a mission now, even if he’s without a plan. He can think on the subject without it being a punch to the gut. He can wonder what Dean is doing right now. Maybe Dean is looking for him too. Maybe, in some nameless town in some unknown state, Dean is also formulating a plan that will allow him to find Castiel, and it won’t matter whether Castiel can manage to find him. It’s almost too much to hope for, but it’s a nice thought.

The upshot of no longer living in denial about his (nearly) hopeless love affair is that he can finally get back to letting his mind wander on his commute. The seventeen minutes he has to himself between home and office are once again freed up to let his mind drift. The first day he goes into the office after coming to the conclusion that he has to find Dean, Castiel finds himself feeling nearly back to normal. He’s still tired, obviously. A single good night of rest can’t undo more than a week of tossing and turning and denial. But he’s able to use his precious commute to settle his brain and order his thoughts.

He arrives at the office much more prepared to face his day. It’s clear what a palpable change there’s been when he walks into his wing and is greeted by Alfie, the departmental secretary.

“Good morning, Castiel!” he calls with enthusiasm. “You look like you’re feeling a lot better. Been pretty tired since you got back from vacation, hey?”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees noncommittally. “I think I must have picked up a bit of something on the plane.”

Alfie nods knowingly. “All that recirculated air. You’re bound to catch a cold sooner or later. Glad to see you’ve gotten some rest. Ooh, I’m supposed to tell you, Hannah’s going to be in late today, but she does have some revisions on your presentation for the conference in South Dakota, and she’ll bring them to you when she’s in.”

Castiel rolls his eyes silently. Why Hannah insists on doing all her editing hard-copy when it’s so much easier to mark things up in digital format, he’ll never understand. It’s one thing to get out the red pen for exams and papers submitted by students, but Castiel would much prefer to work from computerized documents if he’s going to incorporate her edits into such a wordy paper. It’ll take him so much longer to review them now. If he didn’t respect Hannah’s input so much, he’d never put himself through this.

“Thank you, Alfie,” he replies. It’s not Alfie’s fault Hannah is so strange about these things.

“Oh, one other thing,” Alfie presses. It’s not like him to be forgetful, so the fact that he’s playing at a last minute remembrance gives Castiel the impression that it’s information he doesn’t actually want to be delivering. “Gabriel called.”

Castiel stops short, sighing heavily. Gabriel. The brother he never wanted. Technically a half-brother, he’s Castiel’s obnoxious father’s contribution to their messy blended family, his son from a previous marriage, just like Anna is his mother’s from her previous. Castiel and his late twin Jimmy were the products of the new union, and they all lived together in a relative approximation of harmony, but Gabriel has always had this otherworldly ability to get on every single one of Castiel’s nerves simultaneously. Does he love his half-brother? Sure. Does that mean he wants to see him on a regular basis? Not so much.

“Did he leave a message?” Castiel asks. Again, his frustration isn’t Alfie’s fault. There’s no point in taking any of it out on the young man. He does a good job, and part of that job is to pass along information like this.

“Well, no.” Alfie hesitates. “He didn’t. He um…he was actually just trying to find out if you were going to be in your office today.”

Perfect. Just entirely perfect. If Gabriel is checking up on him like this, he either needs something, or he thinks Castiel needs some helicopter sibling attention and knows Castiel will refuse the offer if he’s left the option to do so. So chances are, he’s going to impose himself on Castiel at some point soon. Well, there’s nothing he can do about that. If he’s lucky, he’ll be in class when Gabriel shows up.

“Thank you,” Castiel tells Alfie again, then heads into his small office to set down his briefcase and get to work. He doesn’t have class until after lunch but he’s got some more papers to grade and he should probably look over the ones he graded last night because clearly, his mind was elsewhere. He leaves the door slightly ajar in case any of his students should seek to avail themselves of office hours, and gets to work.

As with any time he’s got a large problem on his brain, focusing too closely on it gets frustrating. Castiel knows that if he sets his mind to the actual task at hand, the one related to his job, and lets the problem of finding Dean simmer in the background, he’ll have a much better chance of coming up with an approach than if he stares it in the face. Besides, there isn’t really much to actively think on at the moment.

It’s quite the puzzle. How do you locate someone you know next to nothing about? Where do you even start? The internet is a miraculous tool in situations like this, but even the beauty of Google isn’t going to help him unless he has more information. He can’t just plug in Dean’s first name and expect to find anything. He certainly can’t search for his face. If he was an artist, he could perhaps put together a sketch from memory and try to run it through some facial recognition software, but Castiel can barely draw a reliably accurate stick figure so that’s not really an option, and he doesn’t have access to that kind of software anyway. It’s possibly the least realistic idea he’s had, but he can’t really come up with anything better.

Between coffee and the stack of papers he’s grading, the morning passes quickly. The ones he graded last night are actually just as bad as all his frantic red-penning would seem to indicate, and even though he’s in a better mood now he doesn’t find himself wishing he could take back any of the harsh deductions he levied on the first run through. If anything, it makes him feel a bit better to know that at least he didn’t unfairly punish any students for his bad mood. Actually, on a few of them, he finds more issues.

Once he’s satisfied that he hasn’t too heavy-handed with the red pen, Castiel sets about entering the grades into the software the university uses to manage results. It’s convenient, because once he sets up the weighting of an assignment and enters each of the scores, everything is calculated for him. It also means each of the students can log in to their account and see all their grades at a glance, and they’re much less likely to pester him about when they’re going to get the papers back for review. He’s about halfway through inputting the data when he comes across a paper where the name doesn’t match, and it gives him momentary pause. The student ID matches, but the computer has a different surname than the page in front of him, and it confuses him to no end until he remembers that she’d gotten married and taken her wife’s name after registration but before class started, so all the digital records have her maiden name but all her paperwork comes in with her married name. And that’s when it hits him.

He knows how he’s going to find Dean.

There were only four weddings at the resort while Castiel and Dean were there, and one of them was Anna and Inais. If Castiel can get in touch with the resort, he might be able to find out the names of the other three couples, and it’d be a fairly easy process of elimination to find out which of the grooms has a brother named Dean.  He’d have a surname to search, then. It would be so easy. As long as he doesn’t have some common name like Smith or Williams or Thompson, Castiel could be so close to finding Dean again.

Castiel types frantically, bringing up the webpage for the resort on his browser and searching out the number for the front desk. His hands shake as he dials the phone, and he struggles to draw a deep breath and calm himself down. It’s not like it’s Dean that’s going to answer the phone. All he’s doing is calling a hotel on a long shot. This isn’t the end of his search, it’s just the beginning.

“Good afternoon, Caneel Bay, how may I direct your call?” a cheerful female voice answers across the wire.

“Hello, I’m hoping you can perhaps help me,” he begins warmly. His voice is calmer than he feels. What does he even ask? “I was at your resort a few weeks ago for a wedding, and I’m trying to get in touch with another couple that was married there at the same time. Could you possibly give me the names of the couples that were married there the weekend of the sixth of May?”

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” the girl tells him, a little scandalized. “It’s against hotel policy to release any information about our guests without their prior consent.”

“Oh, no, I don’t need any information about them, you see. I’m trying to get in touch with the brother of one of the grooms, and I don’t know his last name, so I’m hoping you can just tell me who was married there so I can try to track him down that way.”

“No,” she states firmly. “I can’t. I’m sorry sir. Good afternoon.” And she hangs up the phone without another word. Castiel sighs, dropping the phone on its cradle.

“Wow,” comes a voice from the doorway. “Crash and burn. That was painful to watch.” Castiel doesn’t need to look up to know who the voice belongs to but he does anyway, if only to glare.

“Hello, Gabriel,” he says icily. “I thought I might see you today. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Haven’t seen you in like a month, kid. Thought I should stop in and make sure the parents didn’t traumatize you too badly in paradise. How was the wedding?” There’s the stick of a lollypop protruding from his grinning face, as usual.

“The ceremony was lovely. The reception was, as I anticipated, rather hellish. That’s what you came by for? You wanted to ask about the wedding?”

“Nah,” Gabriel says with a laugh. “Although I did want to ask about it. I really did want to make sure you were doing okay after spending all that time with dear old dad and that mother of yours. I know how they can get about…things. And from the looks of you, it’s a good thing I stopped by. You got time for lunch? We can catch up, you can unload a little?”

And despite how annoying Gabriel can be, that does sound like a really great idea. “I have to be in class at two,” Castiel cautions, but he’s already grabbing his things.

~*~

“So what the hell was that train wreck of a phone call about?” Gabriel asks as the waitress takes their menus.

“Never mind,” Castiel says, sipping his tea to hide his grimace. He kind of hates ordering tea here even though it’s the most comfortable restaurant on campus. Every time he comes here he’s reminded that he really wants to convince them to start using local, organic honey from one of the apiarists in town instead of the commercial processed stuff they currently offer. It’d be more expensive, sure, but he’d be a terrible melittologist if he didn’t at least try.

“Uh, yeah, sure, okay.” Gabriel’s trademark sarcasm is not lost on Castiel. “Or, you know, you could just stop being such a child and tell me what’s going on.”

Castiel sighs, long-suffering. Considering how many of his nerves Gabriel gets on, it’d be easy to believe Castiel is the older brother and Gabriel the younger. He’s certainly irritating enough. “Why, so you can mock me relentlessly?”

“No, baby bro, so I can _help.”_ He takes a sip of his cola (god, he consumes a lot of sugar!) and then fixes Castiel with a look that is somewhere between _tell me what’s up or I’ll smite you_ and _I’m just looking out for you why won’t you confide in me_ , and Castiel finds himself unexpectedly compelled to share.

“I met someone at the wedding. It was supposed to be no-strings attached. It _was_ no strings attached. And we got stuck there for nearly a week after the wedding because of Hurricane Abby and I convinced myself I could just walk away at the end but…” he trails off, unable to find the right words for the sheer magnitude of what he’s feeling.

“But you fell in love,” Gabriel finishes for him, his face softening.

“Yeah,” Castiel agrees. “And all I know is his first name. So finding him is going to be impossible. Calling the hotel was the only idea I had and, well, you saw how that went.”

“Yeah you really fucked that one up,” Gabriel agrees.

Castiel glares at him. “Real helpful. Are you done?”

“I’m not making fun!” Gabriel insists. “I just mean, like, you have no charisma. That was just all wrong. It was like a car accident. It was horrifying but I couldn’t bring myself to look away.”

“Oh come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Castiel says defensively, knowing full well that it was, in fact, that bad.

“It was. And you put a fucking torch to that bridge, so we’re gonna have to find another way to track him down now.”

“What do you mean, _we_?” Castiel snaps. “This is my problem.”

“Well yeah, sure. If you wanna be all independent about it. But you know, just because most of our family is kinda awful doesn’t mean I’m gonna watch you drown in this and not at least try to throw you a life preserver.”

Castiel freezes with his tea halfway to his mouth. “That’s…really thoughtful,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, well, just don’t go telling anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.” Gabriel grins broadly. “So what _do_ you know about this guy?”

“His name is Dean.” Castiel tells him firmly. “And his brother was getting married the day before Anna and Inais. I assume they’ve got the same last name, so I thought if I could find out the names of the grooms I’d perhaps be able to track Dean down. I think he’s a mechanic, but I’m not entirely certain. I surmised that from little bits of our conversations but we had a rule against sharing any identifying information so I never actually confirmed it. Oh, that reminds me, he told me what’s actually wrong with my stupid car. I have an appointment to take it in next week and get this little computer chip replaced under warranty, and that should fix everything.”

“You didn’t exchange last names, but you told him about your weird car troubles?” Gabriel raises an eyebrow in question.

“It came up in conversation! I made an offhand comment and it turned into this thing about how new cars are all run by computers. He knew exactly what I was talking about when I said what my car was doing, and once I mentioned it to the dealership they agreed it was probably correct and they’re ordering me a replacement part.”

“Well that’s fantastic,” Gabriel replies flatly. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Castiel thinks for a moment, his face pensive. He feels like he knows Dean so well, but all of it is hard to put into words, and he can’t imagine how any of it will help locate him. He knows Dean loves a good burger and will choose pie over any other dessert option. He knows he makes stupid jokes and then laughs at them whether anyone else does or not. But what good would that information do for Gabriel?

“That’s all I’ve got,” he admits, but it’s not entirely true. Castiel may not know much about Dean, but he knows him, deep in his soul where it matters. He’s got memories, enough of them to last a lifetime. He’s got the feeling of Dean’s skin under his fingertips, fresh out of the shower and still beaded with droplets of water. He’s got the taste of Dean’s lips, intoxicating like no liquor he’s ever tasted. He’s got the green of Dean’s eyes; one he’ll be seeing every time he closes his eyes from here to eternity. He’s got sensations and dreams and shared moments, and they may not be enough to help find Dean, but they’re more than enough to know him.

“It’ll do,” Gabriel tells him quietly.

“Do you have a plan?” Castiel asks cautiously. He can’t imagine that Gabriel will have formulated one yet, not at this point, but he can’t help but hazard the question.

“I’ve got something brewing,” Gabriel admits cryptically. “Lemme work on it a bit. I’ll let you know what I come up with.”

“Please don’t do anything rash,” Castiel pleads.

“Hey, relax. Not gonna get you in to any trouble. I promise. Scout’s honor.” He holds up his hand in promise. “But seriously. How was the wedding?”

“Anna was radiant,” Castiel replies a little wistfully. “They were going to do this whole barefoot in the sand thing, which you know mother was absolutely up in arms about, but the weather ruined the plan. They had to do the ceremony indoors. Anna still went barefoot, though. Mother will always call her willful for it, but it was beautiful and I think the fact that it wasn’t the wedding mother wanted for her was one of the best things about it.”

“Yeah, no doubt. She’s always been a little bit of a free spirit. Dad was his usual obnoxious self, I assume?” Gabriel barks a laugh at his own commentary, but he’s spot on.

“Undoubtedly,” Castiel cringes. “Despite the fact that he’s not even Anna’s father he kept muttering about how Inais wasn’t good enough for his family and making the crassest comments about the wedding night. It was truly horrific.”

“Why did you even go?” Gabriel presses. “I mean, clearly you don’t regret it because you had this little fling with your boy Dean, but you put a lot of effort into getting out of the family crypt. Why let them drag you back in?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I did it for Anna, Gabe. She’s my sister. She wanted me there. I can put up with my parents for a couple days if it means Anna has a family member that doesn’t drive her mad at her wedding. And you’re right. By putting up with that I did get to meet Dean, so it’s not a complete loss.” The waitress arrives then with their meals, setting them down with a promise to return shortly to check on them.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s all painfully romantic. I know. Shut up and eat your lunch.”

“She would have welcomed you there too, you know,” Castiel insists.

“I know she would have,” Gabriel agrees. “But I think your mother disapproves of my life choices about as much as she does your flagrant homosexuality, and she’s never been anything but horrible to Kali so I’d either have had to leave her at home and piss _her_ off, or bring her and piss them both off. And dear old dad, well, you know, I just plain don’t think he likes me very much. Can’t imagine why. Personally, I think I’m charming as hell.”

“Truly. So you and Kali are back on?” Castiel has always had a hard time keeping track, honestly. It seems to change every time he sees Gabriel. He’s stopped asking.

“Yeah, things are good. She’s moving back in next month,” he relays gleefully. “You should come over for dinner to celebrate.”

As much as Castiel wants to decline, he supposes he owes Gabriel at least the consideration of accepting a dinner invitation. He has, after all, offered to do what he can to reunite Castiel with this green eyed man he knows nothing about. That’s worth at least an awkward family dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Mentions of homophobia


	11. May 25 – 29, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out Dean’s laptop is good for something other than downloading porn and searching for takeout menus. Who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

Coming to a decision is all very well, and the feeling of purpose and satisfaction (not to mention the high he’s riding from finally admitting to himself that he’s in love with Cas) carry Dean through the work day easily. His mood has done a complete 180. He’s fallen in love with an absolutely amazing guy who he was lucky enough to meet (at his brother’s wedding for fuck’s sake). A guy who literally _saved his life._ On a beach. In the middle of a hurricane.

Now that Dean is free to really think about it, he has to admit it’s about the most romantic thing he’s ever heard in his life, let alone experienced. Fuck Penthouse letters, this shit would make a killer romance novel. Maybe he’ll get Ash to write it, although that might be kind of a dick move considering how much shit he’s given the guy for writing gay romance novels.

Dean met Ash at the Roadhouse years ago and spent at least four months thinking he was some dim-witted redneck with a mullet. Turns out that while Ash is definitely a redneck with a mullet, he’s probably the smartest guy Dean’s ever met. Even smarter than Sam or Jess, and that’s saying something. Last Dean heard he was doing some consulting work with CERN on modifications to the Hadron Collider, and at least once or twice a year some shifty-eyed dude in a nondescript suit shows up to try to headhunt him for some nameless shadow agency. Dean’s asked a number of times over the years why Ash has never taken any of them up on their offers. The guy has a tendency to respond that he has everything he needs right here, complete with expansive gestures around the never-quite-clean dive bar. He lives above the place in what Dean’s pretty sure is a single room and, yeah, writes gay romance novels. He’s got quite the cult following, and Dean understands why, since (although he’s never admitted it to a soul and probably never will) he’s actually read a few of them. Ash is a damn good writer, but then he’s good at everything.

Except darts. He sucks at darts. Go figure.

Anyway, the point is, it’s hella romantic and it’ll be even more so when he finds Cas. Dean’s not even letting himself consider the possibility that Cas doesn’t feel the same way or doesn’t want to be found. There were sparks there, and they weren’t just sexual, and they were mutual. Plus, Dean’s not above making some ridiculous romantic gestures and making a fool out of himself if necessary to win Cas over.

But first he’s gotta find the man.

His mood has done such a turnaround that Garth and Benny keep looking at him the same way they might eye up a friendly but unpredictable lion who showed up in the shop when they think he’s not looking. Dean doesn’t begrudge them this, he knows what a royal douchebag he was last week. Today, though, in between random bouts of song (nothing makes work go faster than impromptu karaoke sessions—today he goes with Metallica’s greatest hits), he finishes the restoration, and when the client comes to pick it up he absolutely raves about Dean’s work. He insists on adding a $1000 tip when he pays, then tells Dean he’s currently in negotiations to buy another pair of classics that’ll need a fair amount of work.

Yeah, as days go, this one is killer.

At the end of the day he actually drags the guys to the Roadhouse for a burger and a beer on him (he’s still making up for what a jackass he was), loses $20 when he gets trounced by Jo in pool (the girl is unreal), and wins it back when he absolutely destroys Ash in a game of darts. He’ll never understand why Ash continues to play the game at all, honestly. Sometimes he thinks Ash is just trolling them all, playing as badly as possible to see how long they buy it. Either way, Dean feels a little guilty for taking his money, but Ash insists. Ordinarily, Dean would stay till nearly bedtime, but tonight he’s got other plans. He bids the crew farewell around eight and heads for home.

All day he’s been marinating on it in the back of his mind, and he’s got a plan now. He knows what his next steps are, and he’s pretty fucking proud of his own mental detective work.

Forcing himself not to be a lunatic about this, Dean doesn’t dive for his laptop the second he gets home. Instead he changes into sweatpants, makes his lunch for tomorrow, and _then_ dives for his laptop. He taps his foot impatiently while it boots up (is it always this slow?), then flings himself into his desk chair and pulls up google.

There were four weddings on the island that weekend. Two were on Friday, two were on Saturday—one in the afternoon and one in the evening. Cas’s sister’s wedding was clearly on Saturday evening, given that he’d still been in his tux when they met on the beach. Dean remembers seeing signs for the reception, because one of the names was so similar to his own. It was the Milton-Westchester wedding. One of the many things he learned while helping with plans for Sam and Jess’s wedding was that the bride’s name always comes first—on formal invitations, on save-the-dates, on all wedding paraphernalia, on everything. At the time, he’d figured this was just one more piece of useless wedding trivia. Now it turns out that this could be the thing that leads him to the guy he’s fallen for. He might actually need to thank Sam and Jess.

So, anyway, the point is that Cas’s last name must be Milton, and how many Cas Miltons can there be in the country?

A surprising number, as it turns out.

There are at least eleven Cassandra Miltons (those are easy to eliminate, thankfully), nine Cassie Miltons (he knocks those out too), two Cassiopeia Miltons (seriously? That’s actually a name people give their children?), and those are just the women. He figures it should be easier with dudes.

He’s wrong.

There isn’t a single straightforward “Cas Milton.” Not one. So okay, what the girls’ names told him is that it’s likely to be a nickname. Back to google he goes, this time pulling up a baby name site. There are a surprising number of men’s names that start with Cas. Dean goes with the ones that seem likely to be most common first and, remembering that moment on the beach when they wrote each other’s names in the sand, he starts out with the names that only have one “s” in them.

Casey. Casimir. Castro. Caspian. Castor. Caswell.

People name their children some weird shit. Seriously.

There are six Casey Miltons, three Castros, two Casimirs, one Caspian, four Castors, and _seven_ Caswells, which mystifies the shit out of him until he discovers that apparently it’s a family name for the prolific and wealthy Miltons of Boston.

Already feeling pretty fucking overwhelmed, Dean sets to work cross-referencing with those weird people-search sites. Most of them want him to pay to get detailed information, but for now he’s just looking for the basics.

Cas didn’t have a noticeable accent, which might not actually mean anything, but for the sake of ease, Dean’s gonna assume that means he’s at least not from someplace like the deep south or Minnesota or something. That takes out six of the twenty-three potential Cas Miltons he’s found so far, leaving him with seventeen.

He figures Cas to be anywhere from late twenties to late thirties, and that allows him to eliminate another twelve potentials, leaving behind five: Two Caseys, one Castro, one Castor, and one Caswell.

That’s not so overwhelming, right?

Now he heads to Facebook. This part’s a little more complicated, but based on the info he’s gathered from the people search site, he hunts down the guy he’s pretty sure is the correct Caswell, and it’s definitely not Cas. He’s blond, built like a football player who ODed on steroids, and his profile picture shows him standing next to his horse, in what Dean’s pretty sure is polo gear.

Definitely not the right Cas.

He finds one of the Caseys next. This guy is a doughy-faced redhead who works at Taco Bell and really likes posting pictures of half-naked women.

 _Definitely_ not the right Cas.

He can’t find Castro, the other Casey, or Castor. Maybe they’re not on Facebook, maybe his search skills aren’t good enough. Either way, he moves on to LinkedIn and immediately finds Castor, a resident of Chicago who works in investment banking. Dean does a search for the listed company and finds, to his delight, that their hedge fund managers all have pictures on their website.

Castor Milton is tall, well-built, brunet, and gorgeous—all things he has in common with Dean’s Cas. He’s also Black.

One more Cas out of the running.

This leaves two more: one Casey and one Castro.

Shrugging to himself, Dean goes ahead and pays the 40 dollars on one of the people search sites to get more information about the both of them.

Another twenty minutes and he’s got two phone numbers.

He picks up his phone, heart pounding, and stares down at it. This could be it. He could be about to talk to the guy he’s quite confident he’s fallen in love with. The _guy_ he’s fallen in _love_ with. The one who he was supposed to have a no-strings-attached affair with and then walk away from forever. Jesus Christ, he’s lost his mind, hasn’t he?

In the end, what kicks Dean’s ass into gear is simply the time.

It’s slightly after ten, and if it gets too much later he won’t be able to justify calling these men. One of them lives in California, which means it’s two hours earlier, but the other lives in Wisconsin, which is also Central Time.

Squaring his shoulders, Dean punches in Castro’s Los Angeles area code and waits as the phone rings.

“Hola!” A cheerful male voice greets him.

“Um. Hi, is this Cas—Castro?”

“Si, es Castro. ¿Quién es?

“I, uh, think there’s been a mistake. Sorry, wrong number,” Dean says, “Lo siento.” He knows about twelve words of Spanish. Thankfully ‘sorry’ is among them.

“¡No hay problema! Adios.”

The phone goes dead and Dean sags. Welp, that’s another Cas down. Definitely not the right guy.

That leaves him with a single name. Casey. Casey Milton.

It’s gotta be him. It has to be.

His hands are shaking slightly as he punches in the number and presses send.

The phone rings five times, Dean’s tension ramping up each time. By the time he hears the click of voicemail engaging, his heart is in his throat. He’s desperately hoping it’s not just the generic voicemail message—and it isn’t.

A smooth voice bleeds through the phone, not a hint of gravel to it. “Hi, you’ve reached the voicemail of Casey Milton. I’m afraid I’m unable to come to the phone right now, but if you leave your—“

Dean hangs up. It’s a nice voice. He’s sure Casey Milton is a nice guy.

That doesn’t stop Dean from briefly hating him, purely for the crime of not being _his_ Cas.

With all his detective work come to naught, Dean retires to bed, a little discouraged but nowhere near ready to give up.

~*~

He’s a little more subdued at work the following day, but still in a pretty good mood. Now that he’s thinking about it, he really was able to accomplish a hell of a lot just with his own brain, a laptop, and forty bucks. And he didn’t search for anywhere near the whole gamut of men’s names starting with Cas. He’s not down for the count yet.

Dean dedicates himself to a series of routine but absorbing jobs and the day passes pretty quickly. This time he heads home directly, hunching over his laptop and going straight back to work after popping a frozen pizza in the oven.

More than five hours later, he’s blown another hundred bucks on people search sites, Facebook stalked more than forty guys, and had three very awkward conversations and one kind of cool one with a nice dude name Cassius who lives in Oregon and loves classic cars.

He hasn’t, however, found Cas.

He gives himself a pep talk and drops into bed, determined that tomorrow will be the day.

~*~

It isn’t.

Neither is the next day, or the one after that, or the one after that, and by this time he’s blown an embarrassing amount of money on those fucking people search sites and had way more weird conversations than he cares to admit.

After spending most of the day on his fruitless research, he has to pause the quest on Sunday evening for dinner with Sam and Jess. He’s put them off for way too long, more than long enough that they’re concerned about him. He’s still not really ready to tell them about Cas—Lord knows he’s not ready to come out to his little brother, especially not without knowing whether there’s even a reason to.

Some would argue (and Dean sees their point) that regardless of whether or not he’d fallen in love with a guy, Dean should have come out to Sam years ago. Especially given that Sam—who’s straighter than uncooked spaghetti—was vice president of the Gay/Straight alliance at Stanford for a year and is probably the least likely person on the planet to be judgmental. And yeah, maybe that’s true. Sam wouldn’t have a problem with it, Dean’s sure of this—but it took a good amount of time before _Dean_ didn’t have a problem with it.

John Winchester wasn’t exactly the most open-minded dude, and what Jess would call ‘toxic masculinity’ was pretty much just the way he’d thought the world ought to be. Honestly, Dean was secretly grateful that Dad had died before Jess ever had to meet him, although he still feels guilty for feeling that way. Anyway, the point is, Dean’d had some shit to sort out with himself before he was actually at peace with his own sexuality. Some would probably say he still does, since up until recently he flatly refused to bottom (not because he’d tried it and didn’t like it, but because—okay, he can admit it to himself—that just seemed a little _too_ gay) and up until pretty much right now he never would’ve even considered actually _dating_ a dude. His attitude had always been that dudes were for fucking around with and girls were for dating.

Okay, fine, yeah, now that he thinks about it maybe he hasn’t been quite as at peace with his sexuality as he thought he was. But none of that shit seems to matter right now, not when he’s—fuck, this is _so_ cliché, but it’s also true—never felt this way about anybody before.

So, yeah, he’ll bottom for Cas. And hell yes, he’ll date Cas, if Cas will have him. He’d be fucking _honored_ to date someone as smart and kind and funny and gorgeous and sexy and (holy shit, he’s got it bad, doesn’t he?) all around amazing as Cas.

But actually sitting down and saying to Sam “so as it turns out, I’m bisexual, and I have been probably forever, and I’ve been fucking around with dudes on the sly since you were about 11, and now I’ve gone and fallen in love with one and I’m currently stalking him on the internet and considering actually hiring a fucking private investigator because I’m that obsessed.” …well, it’s maybe not the most attractive idea he’s ever heard.

So the story he’s going with is ‘post-vacation funk.’

And they appear to buy it. They’re sitting in Sam and Jess’s kitchen, finishing up their plates of spaghetti (it’s like the one meal Sam can cook, but he does it really fucking well), and Dean has already apologized for being AWOL for the past couple weeks.

“I get it,” Jess tells him sympathetically, “you know how much I love my job, but it was really hard to get back into the swing of things after a storybook wedding and an incredible honeymoon. Especially since our entire lives have been focused on wedding planning for months. It’s kind of a let-down,” she says, then grins as Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, neatly stuffing the last bite of her own garlic bread into his mouth as he goes to speak. “I didn’t mean being married to you, Winchester, so can it. Just having all the excitement of the festivities over with.” Sam swallows the garlic bread and leans over to kiss her, grinning back.

“Good save, babe,” he tells her, and Dean hides a smile in his beer. It bugs him less to see their newlywed sweetness now that he’s not fervently lying to himself, now that he’s acknowledged his feelings and is working on finding Cas.

“Yeah, that’s exactly it,” Dean lies easily. “Maybe it would’ve been easier if I’d come home when I was supposed to, but that extra week—it’s tough to go from living the high life in luxury with white sand and blue beaches back to good ol’ Sioux Falls. It was…kinda jarring.”

“You know,” Sam says, taking a final bite of his spaghetti and leaning back with a contented sigh, “speaking of the wedding, you’ll never believe this creepy phone call I got from the resort a couple days ago.”

Dean raises a brow, curious and hoping that it didn’t have to do with some surveillance footage of his brother fucking a dude in the towel hut during a hurricane. He doesn’t _think_ there were security cameras in there, but let’s be honest, his focus was really not on such concerns at the time. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” he urges, as Jess rolls her eyes.

“You’re so paranoid,” she tells Sam, “I’m sure it had to do with one of the other weddings. We’re not being stalked.”

Something prickles along Dean’s spine. He straightens, all the attention he was still reserving for the remnants of his food suddenly focused intently on his brother. “Sam,” he says, a little more sharply than intended, “what happened?”

Sam and Jess both turn to look at him, but Dean’s spider senses are going nuts and he can’t be bothered with faking cool. Frowning slightly, Sam speaks. “The wedding coordinator called me to tell me that someone had been sniffing around, asking questions about the weddings that took place at the resort that weekend. Whoever it was claimed they were on the island at the same time and now they really needed to get in touch with the groom or the groom’s family. Said it was really suspicious. The employee they talked to was pretty new, but she didn’t tell them anything of course. The resort wanted to let us know as a courtesy, just in case we knew what it was about or we wanted them to pass on our information if they tried again. Obviously I told them no way, and they said if anyone called back asking more questions, they’d threaten to call the police, but—“

Dean’s pretty sure the blood has been draining out of his face since about halfway through Sam’s little story, and it’s only now that Sam seems to notice something’s wrong. Dean thinks he might actually be swaying a little in his seat.

It’s coming to him in little pieces, what this means. How _huge_ this is.

It was Cas. It _had_ to be Cas. Cas was looking for him. Cas _is_ looking for him—in a slightly oblivious, obviously sort of bumbling way that is entirely _Cas._

 _Cas wants to find him, too._ Dean was right. Cas felt it too. He’s not the only one who’s been drowning since he got home. He’s not the only one who knows that whatever happened between them, it was something worth fighting for. Something worth keeping. _Cas wants him._

And Sam fucking ruined it. Cas was trying to find Dean and Sam ruined _everything._

“Dean,” he hears the words spoken, as if from afar, in his brother’s very concerned voice, “man, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, you—“

“Sam, you fucking _idiot,”_ he bursts out without making any conscious decision to do so, “that was _Cas,_ Jesus Christ, Cas was trying to find me and you—I can’t believe you—fucking _hell,_ do you have any idea what you _did?”_

He’s practically shouting at this point, totally forgetting the fact that he wasn’t going to tell them about Cas, that he wasn’t gonna get into this, because his brother just perpetrated the worst cockblock of Dean’s entire life. More than a cockblock. Way worse than a fucking cockblock. A _heart_ block (holy fuck did he really just think that? He has got to get a life).

Dean cuts off before he says anything else, snapping his mouth shut, running both hands through his hair, trying to figure out any way to fix this, any way to make it better—but it’s no good. It’s too late. If Cas tried again, no doubt the resort’s threats of setting the police on him scared him off for good. And now there’s no way Dean can call them to try to get more information about Cas, because they’re already on high alert. That avenue is permanently closed. Fucking _hell._

“Dude,” Sam says, and Dean’s pretty sure it’s not the first time the kid has tried to get his attention, _“Dean._ Who the hell is _Cass,_ and why is she trying to find you?”

…she. In the haze of his anger at Sam for fucking everything up, his relief and joy because Cas wants to find him, and his horror because _what if they never find each other now,_ he registers that this is an out. This is the out he needs. Because after all of this, after this revelation, there’s no way he’s having that conversation tonight. He just can’t. He needs to go home and work through this new information, develop a plan.

So he considers Sam’s mistaken assumption a blessing, and he goes with it.

“I…met someone,” he says carefully, “on the island. The night of the hurricane. It was completely by accident, but…we really hit it off.”

“And you—oh, _Dean,”_ Jess says, apparently catching on a hell of a lot faster than her husband, who still looks perplexed.

“Okay,” Sam says, “so you met a girl. Why the hell is she stalking you via the resort?”

“We, uh…kind of agreed that it was gonna be a casual thing. No identifying information, no strings attached, just…you know, casual,” he says lamely.

“You mean you decided to have a vacation fling,” Sam says, finally catching on, “but…”

“You fell in love,” Jess finishes, eyes shining. She apparently thinks this is the most romantic thing she’s ever heard—if only she knew the details, she’d probably die on the spot. She does, after all, read romance novels.

“I…yeah. I didn’t plan on it, but…yeah, I guess I really fell hard. And it sounds like I’m not the only one. But I think we both didn’t want to break our agreement, so…”

“So you left,” Jess breathes, looking like _she_ might start to cry, “and you came home, and then you realized—but you don’t know how to contact her.”

“That’s…pretty much the gist of it,” Dean says, feeling kind of like an asshole for not correcting them. Of course, _he_ didn’t ever say ‘she’ or really confirm that it was a woman, but…he definitely didn’t tell them that it wasn’t, either.

“And you think she—Cass?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean confirms.

“Cass is trying to find you,” Sam reiterates, looking appalled, “Oh, God, Dean, I’m so sorry dude. I had no idea. I would never have—“

“I know, Sam,” Dean says, most of his anger already dissipated. How would Sam have known any better? “It’s okay. I’m looking into other avenues, I just haven’t had any success yet.”

It takes him a minute, but he finally manages to get them off the subject with demands to know what’s for dessert. Jess always makes pie when he comes over and she hasn’t disappointed him this time. It’s chocolate pecan, his favorite, and he makes a huge fuss despite the fact that he barely tastes it and only really pretends to pay attention to the conversation.

He leaves as soon as he can reasonably get away with it, waiting until he’s in the car to give vent to his feelings—which are conflicted as fuck. On the one hand, he’s thrilled at the knowledge that Cas is hunting for him, too. And on the other—what if this was it? What if now they never find each other? What if they really were two fucking ships passing in the night, and Sam just blew up their goddamn comm systems?

Dean is sure he’s too agitated to fall asleep, but he can’t bear another fruitless night of internet searches. Maybe it really is time to hire a private investigator and let them go at it. It’s not like he’s doing that great a job himself, and this is already getting expensive from those damn people search sites (not to mention the amount of spam showing up in his email has, like, quadrupled since he started signing up for them).

He’s actually pulled up google and is in the process of searching for local PIs when the thought hits him, and he hits himself. No seriously, he literally smacks himself in the forehead, unable to believe that he didn’t think of it before now.

 _Charlie._ He can call Charlie! She should’ve been his first phone call, probably. There’s no way she can’t figure this out. It’s after eleven, but she’s never been the early to bed, early to rise kind of girl, so he goes ahead and calls her. The phone is picked up after several rings, and the familiar cheerful voice rings out in his ear. “And how are my favorite bitches?”

She means he and Sam, of course, and one of these days Dean will figure out why she insists on calling them her bitches, but for now he lets it slide. “The other one is married and this one is throwing himself on your mercy, my queen.”

“I should’ve known,” she says, clearly in no way annoyed, “you only call when you need something.”

“That’s not true,” Dean argues, “I totally called you last month to ask about the next Moondor weekend, and…oh.”

“Uh huh. As I was saying. Listen, not that I don’t always love to hear from you, Dean, but I’m in the middle of some seriously time-sensitive shit, so how about you tell me what’s up?”

“Damn, shut down,” Dean teases, but he knows that Charlie does some incredibly intense work, often with the same shadow agencies that are so eager to hire Ash (she’s never told him as much, but it’s clear anyway, and Dean’s pretty sure that’s how she’s managed to stay out of prison after some of her more ill-advised hacking adventures). “Anyway, long story short, I need you to help me find someone.”

“Oh, cyber-stalking, is it? You’ve got my attention. Who’s the mysterious target?”

“I…may have met someone. At Sam’s wedding.”

“Dean! Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Who’s the lucky lady or gentleman?”

Charlie’s the only person in his life (well, other than Bobby, he guesses, given recent events) who actually knows Dean’s little secret, and that’s because she guessed. Her exact words were ‘takes one to know one.’ Dean had sensibly pointed out that he wasn’t actually a lesbian, and Charlie had rolled her eyes so hard it was amazing they hadn’t ended up across the room and informed him that ‘a queer’s a queer, Dean.’

He met Charlie five years ago when she brought her car into the shop. A pamphlet for the LARP game she participated in fell out of her bag and when Dean picked it up to hand it back to her, she’d spotted the ill-concealed interest on his face. Fast forward a year and Dean was going out to Moondor events at least once a month, often as Charlie’s royal guard (she reigned as the Queen of Moons; turned out Dean had made friends with the big cheese), despite the fact that she continued to insist upon referring to him as her handmaiden. She amused the shit out of herself.

She seemed to view he and Sam as the big brothers she’d never wanted but loved anyway, and they both adored her. She’d been invited to the wedding, of course, but couldn’t attend because of some job she couldn’t tell them about (“if I did, I’d have to kill you”). Dean assumed she was still working on the same job now.

“A gentleman, as it happens,” Dean admits, rolling his eyes in anticipation of the response.

“Dean! Doth my ears deceive me? Have you finally worked through that nasty case of internalized homophobia?”

“Yeah, yeah, can it, kiddo. Point is, I met a guy, it was supposed to be a casual thing, we got stuck there for five extra days cause of the hurricane, and—“

“Oh my God you accidentally fell in love with a dude!” Charlie squeals, completely losing any semblance of chill she had.

“Are you done?” Dean deadpans, lips twitching with unwilling amusement. Nobody else could get away with this shit, but it’s _Charlie._

“Not even close, but I do have to get back to work, so give me the deets.”

“That’s the problem,” Dean admits, “we were trying to keep it casual, so no identifying information exchanged.”

“Well, tell me everything you know. No matter how insignificant it seems.” Fair enough. He doesn’t question how Charlie works her magic.

“His name’s Cas, only one ‘s,’ but I figure it could be a nickname, and his last name is Milton. He was there for his sister’s wedding, that’s how I figured that out. He’s got dark brown hair, really blue eyes, he’s probably just shy of six feet tall, maybe 160 or 170 pounds, built but not too muscular, smart as fuck, up to date on current events, well-read, and he knows a bunch about bugs.”

“Wait, what?”

“He knows about bugs. Well, mostly bees, I guess? Actually he might be a beekeeper, he got really excited when he found out there was one on the island. Or maybe a science teacher who just really likes bees, or keeps some in his spare time? He kind of had that teacher vibe.”

“Okay, this is good, this is all really good information. Cas Milton, maybe a teacher, likes bees, good physical description. I can work with this. I’m surprised you haven’t found him yourself, actually, that’s solid information.”

“I tried,” Dean complains, “but do you have any idea how many Cas Miltons there are out there? It’s ridiculous. And those fucking people find websites fleece the hell out of you, by the way.”

“Oh come on,” Charlie says, appalled, “why the hell would you use one of those clusterfucks when you have little old me?”

“I, uh…”

“You forgot me, didn’t you?” She demands, not totally inaccurately.

“Of course not,” Dean lies, a little too hastily, “I just knew you were working on a huge job, and I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Liar,” Charlie accuses, without heat, “but I’ll help you anyway. I can do a little poking around now, but you know I mostly need to deal with this job, so if I can’t hunt him down easily it might be a little while before I can really knuckle down and do some in-depth searching, okay?”

“Got it. You’re the best, kiddo. I owe you a big one.”

“Just add it to the list,” she says airily. “I’ll let you know what I come up with.”

“I love you,” Dean tells her fervently.

“I know.” Dean can hear the grin in her voice just before she hangs up.

He goes to bed that night feeling a hell of a lot more confident. Charlie’s incredibly good at what she does. If anybody can find someone, she can. Dean’s certain that by the end of the week he’ll hear from Charlie with a full bio on Cas, including his contact info. A few more days, and he’ll hear that gravelly voice again.

If only things were ever that easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** John Winchester's A+ Parenting, homophobia


	12. May 26 – July 21, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s an entomology conference that Castiel goes to every year. It’s kind of a big deal, and since he’s set to present a paper, it should be taking up all of his attention. 
> 
> It’s not. He just keeps waiting for the phone to ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

It’s not that Castiel doesn’t trust Gabriel.

Okay, strike that. It’s exactly that he doesn’t trust Gabriel. His half-brother has said not a peep as to how he plans to work his particular brand of magic in service of reconnecting Castiel with Dean, and it’s hard not to worry about potential implications. What sorts of things will he feel empowered to say in Castiel’s name? What’s the hidden cost?

Gabriel, for all the charm and charisma that he likes to think himself in possession of, has always been a bit of a snake. He’s always working some angle, always playing some long game. Castiel wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d found his way into a life of crime after high school, to be entirely honest. He’s smart enough to do a lot of damage, and while he’s not without morals, it’s always been clear that they are, at best, a flexible set of rules and not entirely aligned with Castiel’s own. It’s therefore a little surprising that he managed build himself a career that’s mostly on the up and up, dominating the marketing department of a major magazine publisher. Advertising has always struck Castiel as a little sketchy, being that it’s all about making money by convincing people they need something they may or may not actually need, but considering all the less savory ways that Gabriel could have employed his silver tongue, it’s not a bad career choice.

It also means, unfortunately, that he’s not above folding the truth in on itself when it benefits him. Castiel is certain that’s something Gabriel’s planned to employ in his endeavor to find the elusive Dean, and while Castiel doesn’t have to like it, considering how badly he fared on his own, he does seem to be forced to accept it. It’s a strong indicator of how invested he is in finding Dean again that he’s willing to put the matter in Gabriel’s hands.

It doesn’t, however, mean he’s willing to—nor capable of—clearing it from his mind.

For the first few days, he manages to keep his cool. Gabriel hasn’t called since they had lunch, so he probably hasn’t had the chance to start looking into things, right? Rather than obsessing, Castiel buries himself in work.  He focuses on getting his colony collapse paper well-polished in preparation for July’s conference, and tries to at least push the matter to the side.

Anyone who thinks he’s going to be successful at that clearly doesn’t know Castiel at all. He makes it a full week before caving and calling Gabriel to check in.

“Cas, buddy,” Gabriel assures him in a placating tone that only older siblings seem to know how to use, “I’m working on it. Don’t you worry. I’m not gonna drop the ball on this. But I’m gonna have to be sneakier than just calling the front desk and asking for a list of names. If that was _ever_ going to work, it sure the fuck won’t now, not after the way you handled it. The second I’ve got it figured out, you’ll be my first phone call.”

And that conversation plays in his mind every subsequent time he thinks of checking up on Gabriel. He’ll get halfway through dialing the number, remember that it won’t accomplish anything, and go back to distractedly trying to do whatever he was doing when the urge struck. It’s not as bad as those days when he first got home and refused to acknowledge he was pining for Dean, but it’s still pretty bad.

At the insistence of a few well-meaning friends, Castiel even tries his hand at dating in the meantime. His heart isn’t really in it, but Hannah goes from dropping subtle hints to straight up setting him up with her friend Bartholomew. He accepts grudgingly, and only so Hannah will stop pestering him about it.

They set a date for dinner on a Thursday night. Bartholomew picks the restaurant, an Italian place with low lighting and high prices that Castiel would never have selected on his own. Still, the food arriving at other patrons’ tables looks delicious, so even though he’s not interested in the date, he’ll get an enjoyable meal out of it.

Bartholomew is attractive enough, tall and lean and clean-cut. He laughs at Castiel’s jokes, compliments him, asks lots of questions, and when he talks about himself there’s no air of bravado about it. He’s an appealing man with many excellent qualities, but Castiel just can’t summon up the interest. By the time the night winds down, Castiel is feeling a little bit guilty for wasting the man’s time. He tries to reach for the check when the waiter drops it off, but Bartholomew snatches it out of his hand.

“You don’t have to do that,” Castiel tells him earnestly. He’s more than capable of paying for his own dinner, and seeing as he’s not planning on a second date, he doesn’t want to take advantage of Bartholomew’s generosity.

“I insist,” Bartholomew presses, sliding his credit card into the leather folder. “I picked the restaurant, I’m picking up the check. I know you’re not interested.”

Castiel opens his mouth to offer defenses or platitudes, but finds none. Instead, he just nods, a little ruefully.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell Hannah that you were fun but there just wasn’t any chemistry. She has no idea how hung up you are, does she?”

“I’m not entirely sure how _you_ know about that,” Castiel replies, shocked, “But no.”

“It’s all over your face.” Bartholomew sips his wine, smiling kindly. “You keep getting these wistful looks when you think I’m not watching, and you’re melancholy even when you’re smiling. Whoever he is, he’s got hooks in you pretty deep. I couldn’t ever hope to compete with that.”

Castiel huffs, unreasonably indignant considering that Bartholomew has the right of it, but he forces his face to soften. “You’re not wrong,” he admits. “Not in the slightest.”

“I won’t tell Hannah. But if she tries to set you up with someone else, maybe you should. I doubt she’s going to stop trying.”

Castiel has to laugh, because that’s one thing they can definitely agree on. Hannah is not one to give up on something like this, and if Bartholomew isn’t the guy for Cas then she’ll want to find the one who is. There’s still a little voice in the back of his mind that tells Castiel to hold out hope; when he finds Dean Hannah will have no reason to set him up, but it’s a much quieter voice than it would have been a few weeks ago, and it’s getting quieter all the time.

By the time July arrives and he’s actively preparing for the conference in South Dakota, Castiel is starting to lose what remained of that hope. Gabriel is crafty, resourceful, and relentless. If he hasn’t found Dean by now, maybe that’s the end of it. Maybe he isn’t going to come back into Castiel’s life. He might have to resign himself to the fact that this was just really a vacation fling, and the memories of those five days are all he’s ever going to have.  It’s a sobering thought, one that hangs over him like a cloud as he steps off the plane in South Dakota and picks up his rental car.

Delivering his paper, at least, is a welcome distraction. It’s hard to think about the one that got away when you’re in front of an auditorium full of people hanging on your every word. And then there’s a question period afterwards, and that takes up all his focus, and then dinner and drinks with colleagues. Despite having attended these kinds of conferences dozens of times throughout his academic career, Castiel still finds himself somewhat shocked at how thoroughly inappropriate the conversation can turn. This time around, one of the melittologists from Washington State informs the table that he recently stumbled onto a porn video featuring actual bees, and while Castiel is never one to turn down new knowledge, he finds himself wishing there was a way to erase the very idea of the thing from his brain. He’s only too grateful he’s not the one that actually had to see it.

By the time he makes his weary way back to the hotel, it’s been hours since he’s had the free mental space to think about what he’s missing, and then it all slams back into place like it was never gone. The room has nothing in common with the ones he and Dean stayed in other than the fact that it’s a hotel room, but it’s still enough to drag him into a most unwelcome reverie.

His fingertips burn with the need to touch Dean again, a deep-seated desire to feel the kind of closeness Castiel never realized he was missing until Hurricane Abby brought Hurricane Dean into his life. His immediate thoughts aren’t even for sexual touching, although there’s certainly a part of his mind that can’t stop replaying in glorious detail the sensations and sounds of Dean in the throes of passion. More than anything, though, he longs simply to be in Dean’s presence, to hold him tightly and kiss him softly. He wants to come home from work and tell Dean about his day and he wants to hear all about what Dean has done with his time. He wants to share small, mundane moments and large, life-changing ones alike. He wants Dean in his life as much as he wants Dean in his bed, and if Gabriel can’t work his magic and search out some kind of information that will link them up, Castiel is going to take a long, long time to recover.

Melodramatic though his thoughts might seem to an outsider, Castiel knows them to be true. Sometimes when people come into your life, they make a remarkable impact. They change you without trying, worm their way into your mind and into your heart, and you are forever different for knowing them. Dean is one of those people.

Castiel wonders if Dean finds himself impacted as profoundly by their time together. He hopes Dean does. Perhaps he’s searching too, drawing on whatever resources are at his disposal in a valiant attempt to locate Castiel. If so, Cas doubts he’ll be successful. They only exchanged first names, true, so that puts them on equally poor footing, but Castiel is almost certain he never used his full first name around Dean, so chances are he’s just searching out a vague nickname. It’s not promising. No, Gabriel is the only real hope here.

It’s not an uplifting thought, and as Castiel pours himself a drink out of the minibar, it’s hard to summon up much hope at all.

~*~

When Castiel’s phone vibrates in the pocket of his slacks for the fourth time during this particular session, he’s eternally grateful that he leaves the thing silenced whenever he’s at a conference, regardless of the fact that it rarely rings. He can’t imagine who could possibly be that determined to get in touch with him, but he’s certainly not expecting a call and he can’t seem to summon up the motivation to check it. Whatever information is left behind, voicemail or just a number in the call log, it’ll still be there when they break for lunch. He can deal with it or ignore it then. Frankly, it’s already taking a great deal of effort to keep his mind focused on the dry and pedantic lecture that’s currently being delivered, so he really can’t spare any attention for his phone anyway.

He’s put it completely out of his mind by the time the session finishes, and thank god it _did_ finish because if Castiel doesn’t get some caffeine in him, there is no way he’s going to survive the afternoon. It’s possible that he availed himself too liberally of the minibar last night, and now there are consequences to be suffered. He’s not hungover, not really, but he’s tired and bleary and short of temper, so maybe the lecture wasn’t quite that bad but it certainly felt like it. In any case, it’s not Castiel’s phone that’s at the forefront of his mind, but rather the elaborate luncheon spread and plentiful coffee in the other room that has his attention, and it’s not until a colleague asks if he knows the time that Castiel even looks at his phone.

“It’s quarter past one,” Castiel tells him absently. There are four missed calls and one voicemail from Gabriel on his phone, all jammed together within minutes of each other. Castiel excuses himself from the table, waving his colleagues’ inquiries off with nearly vibrating hands. “I’m fine,” he assures them. “I just need to take this call.” His face has gone white as a sheet, they tell him, and he’s sure it has. It certainly feels like the blood has drained right out of him.

Fingers stabbing the touchscreen to punch in his voicemail password, Castiel leans against a wall in the hallway for support, grateful the entire conference is eating lunch right now and there’s no one there to see him so frantic over a phone call. Gabriel could be calling for a multitude of reasons. It could be a family thing. He could need a favor. There is no guarantee this is anything to do with Dean—but Castiel is really hoping it is.

_“Hey baby bro, look, I know you’re at your bug thing right now and I’m sure you’re up on some dumb stage talking about the birds and the bees…or maybe it’s the wasps and the bees…anyway, whatever. I know you’re busy, but this is more important. I got some info for you. And despite the fact that you never call me, I know you have my number, so get your boring ass out of your bumblebee think tank and call me back.”_

Castiel supresses the urge to roll his eyes at Gabriel’s flippancy and dials his number. His stomach is doing flip-flops and he’s abandoned all attempts to rein in his excitement on the subject. This has to be about Dean. It has to.

“Cas!” Gabriel exclaims when he answers the phone “You _do_ know how to make a phone call! I was beginning to doubt you ever learned how!”

“Hello, Gabriel,” Cas replies, more patient than he feels. He owes Gabriel that much. He owes Gabriel a lot more than that, probably, but right now he owes him at least politeness. “You left me a somewhat cryptic message…”

“Oh don’t start. You know exactly why I’m calling. I found your boy.” He says it like it’s of no importance whatsoever, but Castiel can practically imagine the sly grin on his face. Gabriel does like lording information over people. He hopes it won’t be difficult to get the details out of him.

“You did?” Castiel exclaims, unable to contain his delight. “How did you manage it? No, wait, I don’t care about that. Just tell me. Did you talk to him? Does he want to hear from me?”

“I’m gonna ignore the part where you aren’t even interested in how clever I am and tell you anyway,” Gabriel taunts. “I told the hotel that one of our publications was doing a piece on ecotourism and wanted testimonials from some of their wedding parties. They wouldn’t actually give me a list, but it got me a call with their special event coordinator. It’s amazing what information people will give you when they’re responding to praise. I dropped Anna’s name as someone who said good things about them and suggested I might wanna talk to other couples who got married that weekend if they were cool with it. Once we got to chatting about their whole wedding package deal, I got a whole handful of names out of the girl. Anyway, one of those ended up being Dean’s brother’s name. It took me a while to vet all the info, but yeah. I found him.”

Castiel is stunned. Floored even. Gabriel has come through. Well, mostly, because he hasn’t actually told Castiel anything yet, but it’s something. “You’re amazing,” Castiel tells him. “Are you actually going to share?”

“His name is Dean Winchester,” Gabriel announces proudly. “And you were right about him being a mechanic. Specializes in custom restorations on old cars. From what I’ve been able to find online, he’s pretty good at what he does, too.  I’ve got an address; I’ll text it to you when we get off the phone.”

It’s nearly too much for Castiel to process. He’s got Dean’s name and he knows where he lives. It would be easier if he had a phone number, sure, but this is a great start. He’s so overjoyed with the information that it takes a moment to register that Gabriel is still speaking.

“Cas? Are you still there? Are you listening to me? I’m trying to tell you he lives in Sioux Falls. He’s in South Dakota. Your boy just happens to be right around the corner from your damn bug thing.”

“Gabriel,” Cas commands, forcing his voice to remain steady with monumental effort. “You need to text me that address right now.”

~*~

The afternoon is a complete blur. Castiel has record on his phone that proves he sent Hannah a text message to let her know an emergency came up and he wouldn’t be back for the afternoon session.  He knows he went back to his room because he’s got a small bag with toiletries and a change of clothes in the trunk of his rental car, and he must have stopped somewhere on his way out of town because there’s a fresh cup of coffee in the center console beside him. He must have changed at some point too, because instead of the slacks and shirt/vest combo he was wearing at the conference, he’s now in a suit and tie, and the trenchcoat he never goes anywhere without is draped over the passenger seat. Gabriel once said he treats the thing like a security blanket, comparing him to some unsteady toddler lugging the thing everywhere and clinging to it desperately. Castiel certainly doesn’t think of it that way.

In any case, Castiel doesn’t remember accomplishing any of this. All he knows is that Gabriel texted him Dean’s address and Mapquest is currently reading him out a series of directions on how to wend his way across the state to get there. Once he arrives in Sioux Falls, however, he realizes it’s mid-afternoon on a weekday, and being that all he has is Dean’s home address, it’s unlikely he’s going to make contact for at least another hour and a half. He does swing by the address in question and finds the driveway empty, confirming his suspicions, but it doesn’t remove any of Castiel’s anticipation.

It does, however, force him to stop and formulate a plan. Prior to this moment he really hasn’t done any thinking on the subject. It’s all been impulse. The only thought has been that he knows where Dean is, so he needs to put himself in the same place. Now, with an hour and a half to kill before he presumes Dean’s workday will end, he’s aimless in a town he’s never been to, killing time as best he can.

The first thing he decides is that just showing up on Dean’s doorstep is a terrible idea. He should make it meaningful somehow. Castiel should have some kind of offering, some gesture to show Dean how invested he is. That’s what people do, right? In the movies? Grand sweeping gestures and confessions of love are usually accompanied by some kind of a gift: flowers or jewelry, chocolate—something like that. Only he doesn’t actually know what kind of chocolate Dean likes, and the whole concept of jewelry as a gift seems a little too heteronormative and frankly, not right for Dean _or_ Cas, so that just leaves flowers. And flowers, well, those Castiel can do. He’s got a whole garden at home full of bee-friendly blossoms. He can definitely bring Dean flowers.

He parks his car in the first available parking lot and digs out his phone, searching for nearby florists while he drains the last of his now-cold coffee. He finds a couple of likely looking places, but the first shop he tries no longer exists and the second one closes early on Thursdays.  Thanks to traffic and the difficulties in navigating an unfamiliar city, he’s eaten up nearly his entire spare hour and a half and he simply can’t countenance the idea of waiting longer than necessary to reunite with Dean.  It’s time for a new plan. 

Grocery stores usually have a floral department, right? It won’t be fancy, but the sentiment will be there.  A quick internet search later and his phone is spitting out addresses for a list of options, one of which is reasonably close to Dean’s house.  Their website confirms a floral department is on offer, and before he knows it, Castiel is striding purposefully through the sliding doors.

There are a lot of options. Far more than he expected in a grocery store floral section, for sure. Marigolds and sunflowers attract bees, of course, but they’re not really the nicest flowers for a _hey I know we said no strings but it turns out I fell in love with you anyway and I think we should be together_ bouquet. Traditionally, he should be going for red roses, but that seems so absurdly cliché. Poppies and snapdragons are more the right color family for confessions of love, and they’re bee-friendly, but neither of those seem to be in supply at this particular time, so they’re out of the picture.

Castiel knows he’s overthinking this. It’s pretty obvious. But what the hell else is he supposed to do? Finally, he settles on an arrangement of red tulips and sweet peas. The tulips aren’t particularly friendly to bees, which he supposes is irrelevant because they’re cut flowers; they won’t be pollenating, and they’ll be inside anyway, but it’s hard not to think about these things when you’ve made bees your entire life. The sweet peas are definitely attractive to bees though, and they’re symbolic of shyness, whereas red tulips stand for declarations of love, so the whole package is a perfect pronouncement of his sentiment. Dean won’t know unless Cas tells him, of course, but Cas will know, and it seems like it should matter.

Will Castiel tell him, though? Will he hand over the bouquet and explain the significance, or will he just tell Dean _these are for you,_ like some lovesick teenager who doesn’t have better words for his emotions? How in the hell is he going to go about this? He can’t just show up at Dean’s door without a plan, can he? Castiel imagines that if Dean has been searching for him too, the arrival will be welcome and not at all confusing. Supposing, however, that Dean hasn’t thought of Castiel at all except to acknowledge that what they had was over, there’s probably going to be some explaining to do. Bouquet in hand, he finds himself pacing back and forth between displays of flowers, muttering under his breath as he tries to collect his thoughts and come up with something approaching a cohesive declaration of his feelings and intentions. Mostly, he thinks he probably looks and sounds like he’s panicking, which is fair because he kind of is.

In the midst of all this panic, something achingly familiar catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. At first, Cas thinks he’s seeing things again, just like when he thought he saw Dean in the airport on the way home from the island—but as his eyes come into focus and his brain catches up, there can be no mistaking it. There’s more stubble on his face than there was last time Cas saw him and he looks tired, like the weight of the world is dragging at him in a way that requires more than just a good night’s sleep to solve, but it’s him. It’s Dean. The man Castiel has been searching for, the man Castiel hasn’t been able to get out of his mind or his dreams since they parted ways on the beach, is standing at the end of the aisle, staring at Castiel like he can’t believe his eyes.

Castiel knows the feeling, truth be told, because he doesn’t really believe his own. Dean’s the entire reason he’s in town but it’s still staggering to see him standing there, no longer a memory Castiel has to conjure up but instead something he can see and touch. If their lives were a movie, the music would swell here. They’d run into each other’s arms and profess their love. It would be so beautiful and perfect.

Instead, Castiel takes a cautious step forward, like he’s sure the dream will dissolve the second he moves, trips over a display of greeting cards, and goes crashing to the floor still clutching his tulips and sweet peas. When he collects himself enough to glance up, Dean is standing over him, shock all over his face, hands extended like he wants to help Cas up but is still kind of frozen. Castiel gets it. This isn’t exactly what he expected either. He takes Dean’s outstretched hand gratefully, doing his best to ignore the little sparks that run the length of his arm when their skin comes in contact, and gets to his feet as gracefully as he can manage given the circumstances. He straightens his trenchcoat, taking a moment to collect himself, and then reaches down to pick up the (now somewhat squashed) bouquet of flowers. They droop and shed a few petals as he extends his arm to hand them to Dean, a sheepish grin on his face as he speaks. The words are not at all what he planned, but they’re the best he can summon up in this entirely awkward moment.

“Bee mine?” Castiel asks, like he intended this all along, like he’s some kind of clever. It’s cheesy. It’s terrible. He doesn’t care. Dean is here, right in front of him. Nothing else matters.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings: **nothing horrible****


	13. May 30 – July 21, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s trying not to lose hope, but it’s hard. Time drags on, and it starts to seem like there’s no way he’s ever going to see Cas again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

It takes a hell of a lot of effort not to harass Charlie relentlessly. For the first few days Dean has to exercise incredible self-control to refrain from texting her every five minutes to demand updates, to make sure she hasn’t forgotten about him.

She _hasn’t_ forgotten about him, he’s quite sure of it, but she really is incredibly busy with whatever top secret project she’s currently working on. Dean knows it has to be important, and that whatever shadow agency she’s moonlighting for probably wouldn’t be super impressed by the old “see, one of my besties accidentally fell in love with a dude and was too stupid to exchange information with him, so I’ve gotta put this matter of national security on hold to hunt down his objet d’amour.” So, yeah, he gets it.

But he doesn’t have to like it.

It takes three days for him to hear anything back, and then it’s just a text message: “No luck yet.” Charlie’s never that terse, so he knows she’s gotta be up to her neck in whatever she’s working on. Rather than whining or putting pressure on her, Dean just thanks her again for the effort and (he has to grit his teeth to force himself to do it) tells her not to stress about it and to make sure she’s getting some rest. She has a tendency to forego shit like eating and sleeping when she’s real deep into particularly challenging hacking projects, and while Dean knows that her girlfriend Gilda’s pretty good at making sure she doesn’t inadvertently starve herself to death, Charlie’s pretty fucking stubborn.

It’s another two weeks before he gets the next update, and it’s actually a phone call. He’s in the kitchen, shirtless, making himself pancakes (sometimes a man just needs breakfast for dinner), and he’s so excited to hear her ring tone (the Star Wars theme song, obviously) that he practically drops the phone in the bowl of pancake batter. Some haphazard fumbling later and he manages to answer it. He aims for casual and fails completely.

“Hey, kiddo, what’s up?” His voice is practically vibrating with eagerness.

“Smooth,” she compliments, but she’s not mean enough to keep him in suspense, “sorry to get your hopes up, but still nothing. I still haven’t been able to really bury myself in it, but I haven’t forgotten you and I’m still poking around when I get a break while things compile.”

“Hey, I understand,” Dean says, trying not to let his disappointment bleed into his voice.

“We’re gonna find him, Dean,” Charlie says, voice softening a little, “it’s just a little more challenging than I thought it might be. I’m not finding any Cas Milton that fits the description. Could you have gotten anything wrong?”

“I mean, I guess so? I’m not sure what, though.”

“I’ve got a couple ideas I haven’t explored yet, so keep the dream alive.”

“You know it,” he tells her, although the dream is starting to look a little sickly.

“I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can, and—shit, gotta go, talk later!”

“Okay, thanks!” Dean manages to say before the phone goes dead.

By the time another couple weeks have slid by, the dream is on life support. He figured Charlie would be able to find him within a day. She’s never met a digital challenge she couldn’t knock out of the park. Now it’s been over a month and still nothing. He finally bites the bullet and calls her when he hasn’t heard anything in more than ten days.

“Still no luck,” she tells him, sounding kind of frustrated herself. “There’s definitely no Cas Milton out there that comes even close to what you’ve told me. No such Cas Milton exists, unless he’s completely off the grid, and literally nobody is _completely_ off the grid, no matter how much they think they are.”

“I’m pretty damn sure he’s not the kind of guy who would even try to be off the grid,” Dean tells her glumly. Is this it? Is she giving up?

“Don’t sound so miserable. We’re nowhere near out of options. I’m just going to switch my focus a little. He never actually gave you that last name, right?”

“Well, no, but his sister—“

“Might have a different last name. Maybe she’s a step-sibling. Maybe she was married before. Anyway, it’s a new angle, and that’s what I’m gonna get to work on next.”

“How the hell do you find someone with only a first name that might be a nickname?”

“Dean. Have you _met_ me?”

“Fair enough,” he says, unable to hide his hopelessness.

“When I find him, you’re gonna owe me so big.”

“Charlie,” he tells her seriously, “if you find him, you can have whatever the fuck you want. Don’t care what it is. I’ll make it happen.”

“That’s a very dangerous thing to tell me. Look, the project should be done within the next week or so, and then I’ll be able to really throw myself into this. Keep the faith.”

“Thanks, kiddo. Talk to you later.”

She’s good, Dean knows she’s good, but this seems impossible, even for Charlie. He has to start accepting that it’s over. He’s never gonna find Cas. It’s time to start trying to move on.

It’s this thought that leads him to a bar he hasn’t been to in some time. It’s a lot swankier than the Roadhouse, and Ellen doesn’t like it when he picks up women there anyway. Not since that one girl dumped an entire Bloody Mary over his head—not to mention the floor (it’s a long story, but he maintains that he definitely never told her they were getting married, especially after only one night together). Anyway, he heads to The Cobalt Room instead of the Roadhouse, and before too long he’s buying a drink for a gorgeous and appealingly snarky brunette named Tessa who actually knows a little bit about classic cars. She’s pretty much his ideal wet dream, or she was up until recently.

Fast forward another two hours and Tessa’s backing him into her apartment. Their lips are locked and her body is plastered against his, all supple curves and smooth hollows. She’s an incredible kisser, and if this were two months ago, Dean would probably already have her bent over the back of her couch. Now, though? He’s barely half-hard, and that’s only because of the friction of her thigh between his legs.

He wants to want her. He really does. He wants to be into this in the way he knows he would’ve been not so long ago.

But he’s just not feeling it. Her eyes are the wrong color and her body is the wrong shape and her voice is much too high and smooth and she’s everything he should want but she’s not _Cas._ He tries for a little longer, kissing her deeply, sliding his hands down her back to cup her ass and pull her in a little tighter. She goes with it, groaning a little, but a second later Dean is tearing his lips away from hers without quite deciding to.

“Tessa,” he says, then flounders, unsure how to tell her that after everything, after all his best moves, he’s just…not into it.

“You can’t do this,” she finishes, sighing. “I was sort of hoping you’d push past it, cause you’re hot as hell and I bet you fuck like a god. She’s a lucky girl, whoever she is.”

How the hell does everybody _know?_ He opens his mouth to demand an answer and she shrugs and gives a small laugh.

“You’ve got the look about you. You’ve got it bad for someone and you’re trying to force your way past it. Bad news, Dean, that’s not how it works. Go find her and work it out.”

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his carefully gelled hair, messing it up. “Believe me,” he mutters, “I’m trying. Look—I’m really sorry, Tessa. If this were a couple months ago—“

“I get it,” she says, shaking her head good-naturedly. “Don’t worry about it. But hey, if it doesn’t work out, you know where to find me.”

He manages half a grin and takes his leave, heading home to his cold, solitary bed. So much for getting over Cas.

He dreams of mussed black hair, intense blue eyes, and strong hands pinning him down.

~*~

He needs a project. That’s what it is. He’s gotta keep himself busy and occupied.

It takes a day or two and another couple of filthy dreams, but one morning he wakes up and realizes that, while Cas introduced Dean to a side of himself he knew nothing about, he hasn’t actually done anything to _learn_ about this stuff. Hell, he barely knew what a safeword was. His sex in the past has been pretty much entirely what Cas referred to as ‘vanilla,’ but as it turns out, he’s discovered that he’s all about chocolate.

And whether or not he finds Cas ( _please_ let him find Cas) he should know more about what turns his crank, right?

He buries himself in research of a sort Sam’s probably never done, starting with Google and proceeding to a short stack of highly recommended books. His favorite is _Screw the Roses, Give Me the Thorns,_ but there’s some other good ones too. He learns a whole lot about kink (including plenty of things he didn’t really want to know, but who’s he to judge?) and this may have actually been a lousy idea, because his spank bank now has a whole lot of new material to work with. He’s jerked off to images of Cas doing all sorts of incredibly filthy things to him, and no matter how many times he tries to replace Cas with a nameless, faceless stranger (or Angelina Jolie, or hell, even Brad Pitt), in the end it’s always Cas.

~*~

He spends the Fourth of July at Bobby’s with Benny, Garth, Sam, Jess, Ellen, Jo, and Ash. They drink beer, they barbecue, they give Bobby multiple heart attacks by setting off fireworks in the salvage yard. It’s a good time, made all the more delightful when Dean catches Bobby and Ellen making out in the kitchen. He’s been rooting for that to happen for a long-ass time, and even the warning look Bobby gives him before shoving him back out the door isn’t enough to stop him from sharing the good news with everyone. Money changes hands—a lot of bets just came due now that they’ve finally gotten around to it. Dean himself earns fifty bucks from Benny but has to pay twenty of it back to Jo—it’s a long story.

When the two of them come out, it’s to a chorus of laughter, cheers, and good-natured ribbing. Dean joins in, but as soon as he’s back in the Impala, the mask drops. It’s starting to hurt again, seeing people (even old salty people) in that haze of new love. Dean is doubting that he’s ever gonna feel that again.

For the first time in a while, he sleeps like shit.

~*~

It’s late July, he hasn’t been sleeping well, and he hasn’t heard from Charlie in more than a week. She was starting to sound a little discouraged herself the last time he called her, although she swore she wasn’t giving up. Dean is starting to think that hollow sort of feeling in his gut is gonna be permanent. Garth and Benny invited Dean to join them at the Roadhouse tonight (where, incidentally, Bobby’s been spending a lot more time the past few weeks). He declined, telling them he had leftovers at home he needed to finish.

It’s a lie, he has fuckall at home, but he really can’t justify ordering more take-out, so he decides to stop by the grocery store to pick up dinner for one, and never mind how pathetic _that_ is. He’s lazy and is thinking about a frozen dinner when he swears he hears something achingly familiar in the next aisle over. It’s quiet enough that he could be imagining it, but damned if it doesn’t sound like the gravelly voice that’s been haunting his dreams for the past two and a half months.

Great, now he’s hallucinating.

He turns, disgusted with himself, ready to give up and abandon the grocery store altogether in favor of ordering pizza—but something stops him. The tiny flame inside of him that hasn’t quite been extinguished demands that he make absolutely sure his mind is really playing tricks on him, and fuck it, why not?

He comes around the endcap, already pre-emptively annoyed at himself, and time stops. Dean freezes solid as the world tilts on its axis. For a second he actually sways on his feet, thinks he might even fall over.

In the end, he’s not the one who topples.

Cas is pacing, muttering to himself, and Dean dimly registers that he’s doing exactly what Dean did in front of Cas’s hotel room door only a few short months ago. It can’t be more than ten seconds before Cas must catch sight of him or maybe fucking sense him, who knows, because he’s turning to face Dean, blue eyes flaring huge. He’s wearing a suit and tie topped by a trenchcoat, which is kind of insane in July. It’s a look Dean’s never seen on him, but it suits him. He’s also clutching a bouquet of flowers that Dean somehow knows are meant for him.

This is no accident. Or it is, but only the part where they’ve managed to run into each other in the grocery store. Cas is here…for him. Cas has been trying to find him too.

There’s a moment in which they are both frozen, staring at one another. Probably they should be throwing themselves into each other’s arms and passionately kissing between declarations of love.

That ain’t how it goes.

Dean guesses maybe it’s kind of appropriate, considering their meeting. Cas manages to unfreeze first. He takes a step toward Dean, flowers extended, face etched with the same kind of half-disbelieving, desperate joy Dean is feeling, but his foot catches on a display of greeting cards.

Dean sees it in slow motion, but there’s not a damn thing he can do to stop it as Cas crashes to the floor. Greeting cards fly in every direction and the lovely bouquet of flowers is the only thing that breaks poor Cas’s fall, because apparently Dean’s not the one who does the saving in this relationship.

It looks like it probably hurts, and concern for Cas is what finally shakes Dean out of his trance. He stumbles forward, practically tripping over a greeting card (and wouldn’t that just be a fine thing, the two of them faceplanting together) and extending a hand to help Cas to his feet.

A frisson of heat starts in his palm and spikes through his entire body as the beautiful man Dean didn’t think he’d ever see again takes the proffered hand. Dean helps him to stand and they stare at each other again for a long moment as Cas attempts to straighten himself out. He looks a bit like a confused and disheveled puppy, and Dean actually has to dig his fingernails into his palms so he doesn’t grab Cas and drag him in for that kiss.

Then Cas squares his shoulders, glances down at the distinctly pitiful looking flowers, and thrusts them toward Dean. “Bee mine?” he says, and forget romantic movies and rising orchestral music and perfect reunions, _this_ is exactly right. This is exactly what Dean wanted and needed. It’s messy and ridiculous and unlikely and it’s perfectly, entirely _them._

Dean crosses the distance between them and carefully takes the offered flowers. He has no fucking clue what he’s going to say until the words are suddenly there between them.

“I already am,” he says, and then he is reaching for Cas at the same moment that the other man’s hands come up to tangle in Dean’s shirt and jerk him closer. Their lips crash together, and the greeting card carnage and the smashed flowers and the grocery store and the entire fucking world fall away. The only thing that exists, the only thing that matters is _them,_ this moment and this kiss and the reality of both of them in the same place at the same time.

Every nightmare that’s haunted Dean for the past two months, every secret fear of never finding this perfect man—they all die a quiet and unceremonious death. All the dreams and fantasies and barely acknowledged hopes roar back to life. The world, which has been looking washed out and dull and pointless for longer than Dean cares to admit suddenly sharpens and brightens. Colors are more vivid and sounds are crisper and Dean barely fucking notices because Cas is actually in his arms.

~*~

Dean will never quite remember how they get out of the grocery store, except that he’s pretty sure it involved a teenage employee coming over to beg them to take it somewhere else so that he could clean up the disastrous mess. Cas insisted on paying for the flowers, which is good because Dean plans on keeping them forever. Maybe he’ll dry them and frame them, and fuck anyone _(Sam)_ who mocks him for it.

Dean drags Cas back to the Impala—Cas mentions a rental car, but by mutual unspoken agreement there’s no fucking way they’re letting themselves be separated even long enough to drive back to Dean’s house.

“My baby,” he tells Cas proudly, patting the steering wheel as the other man settles into the passenger seat, still clutching the poor bouquet. Cas makes the appropriate noises but Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t even see the car. He has eyes only for Dean, who suddenly realizes that his clothes are wrinkled and sweaty from being under his coveralls all day, he hasn’t shaved in at least three days, his hair is probably a disaster, and his nail beds are caked with engine grease.

“I’m sorry, I’m disgusting, I’m just coming from work, I—” he apologizes as the car speeds toward home.

“You’re perfect,” Cas declares so fervently that there’s absolutely no arguing with it, “but if you’re feeling self-conscious I’m more than happy to join you in the shower.”

 _There’s_ the Cas he remembers. Dean laughs, and when he turns his head to glance at Cas, he finds the other man watching him with a mixture of fondness and unabashed _greed._ The look somehow manages to shoot directly to Dean’s heart and groin at the same time, and if that’s not the best summary of their entire weird entanglement to date, Dean doesn’t know what is.

There’s so much to talk about, so much to say, so much to cover, but they don’t seem to know where to even begin. Finally, Cas breaks the silence again. “I’ve been searching—“

“—for me,” Dean finishes, “I know, I figured out it had to be you who called the resort. They called Sam—my brother, Sam—to tell him someone had been sniffing around. I’ve been looking for you, too, but you’re not an easy man to find.”

Cas reaches out and seizes Dean’s hand, eyes looking a little shiny at the revelation that Dean’s been hunting for him too. “We were so fucking stupid. Stubborn and stupid.”

“Barely took me a week after I got home to realize I had to find you,” Dean tells him by way of agreement. “But I was starting to think—“

“So was I,” Cas says, voice quiet, and then Dean is pulling into the driveway, and they make it to the door like mature, reasonable adults who are capable of being in proximity without ripping each other’s clothes off like a couple of love-drunk teenagers, and then they are inside and ripping each other’s clothes off like a couple of love-drunk teenagers.

Cas’s trenchcoat hits the floor just by the door before he jacks Dean up against the foyer wall. Dean’s flannel hangs crazily off the lintel over the entranceway. One of their shoes actually hits the hallway clock and knocks it to the floor. Cas breaks their kiss to mutter against Dean’s lips, “shit, I’m sor—“

“Always hated that clock anyway,” Dean gasps, then leans down to suck a dark mark under the line of Cas’s jaw.

Dean’s jeans end up on the stairs and Cas’s button-down hangs over the railing. Nobody notices where their socks end up (one of them will never be heard from again) but what really matters is that by the time they hit Dean’s bedroom they’re both down to boxers.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Dean breathes, dropping his head to Cas’s shoulder as he crushes Dean against his chest.

“Missed you too,” Cas growls, biting Dean’s shoulder, “every day. Condoms? Lube?”

“Bedside table,” Dean tells him, reaching down to take care of his own boxers and climbing onto the bed. He is rock hard and leaking. He wants to get down on his knees and suck Cas until the other man screams, wants Cas to give him one of those incredible blowjobs he’s so good at, wants to bury his cock inside Cas, but most of all, absolutely above all of it, he wants Cas to hold him down and fuck him until he forgets his own name, until he can’t remember the last few miserable months of his _absence._

“Need you inside me,” he demands as Cas emerges from the bedside table with both of the aforementioned items.

Cas doesn’t bother responding verbally, just climbs onto the bed. Dean helps him out of his boxers and then Cas is gently pressing him onto his back and a slick finger skates lightly across the tight furl of muscle that nobody else has ever breached.

Well, sort of. It’s possible that Dean’s done a little solo experimenting, but that doesn’t really count. The point is, the only _other_ person he’s let do this to him is Cas, and he didn’t realize how much he’d missed it, didn’t truly remember how amazing it felt until this moment.

Cas fingers him open with a patience that Dean’s pretty sure he would totally lack if the situation was reversed, and in fact he’s begging the other man to fuck him before Cas has even worked three fingers in.

“Oh, I will,” Cas growls, his lips grazing across the curve of Dean’s throat, lightly nipping at his Adam’s apple, “but I have no intention of jumping the gun and leaving you too sore for the next twelve rounds.”

Dean actually snorts with laughter at the same time that he groans, and he’s probably lucky he doesn’t end up choking. Instead, he settles for leaning up enough to lock lips with Cas, grunting as that third finger finally slides inside.

Another minute or two of stretching and scissoring and Cas slips his fingers out of Dean and rolls on the condom. Dean’s back arches as Cas’s cockhead nudges its way past his rim. He lets out the kind of wanton whimper he’d have said he was incapable of until fairly recently as Cas slides smoothly in, inch after inch, until he bottoms out. There’s a moment in which Cas is completely still, letting him adjust, and their eyes lock.

Everything they were afraid to admit to, everything they weren’t allowing themselves to feel is etched across their faces and blazing in their eyes. There is no pretense now, no careful guarding of emotion, no false narrative of a casual fling or lack of investment. There is nothing casual here. They are invested. Somehow, against every obstacle and defying all the odds, they are _here, together,_ and Dean’s pretty sure that whatever is between them, neither of them is gonna let it go so easily ever again.

When his muscles finally ease around the intruder, Cas draws back, slipping almost all the way out of Dean before reseating himself fully. His thrusts are slow and steady at first, testing the waters, making sure that Dean is stretched enough to do this—which he is, incidentally, and that’s probably why he finally wraps his legs around Cas, digs his heels into the firm muscles of his ass, and jerks him down hard and fast.

Cas gets the message. His thrusts speed up as he drives into Dean harder, and then they are fucking in earnest, but it’s more than that, too, because nobody looks at a simple fuck with that much tenderness and adoration underlying the primal _need._ Dean is drinking Cas in, watching every minute expression, listening to every huff of breath and grunt as Cas takes him. He knows he is gasping and moaning too, arching into each thrust, legs tight around Cas. He feels so full in a way he was sure as hell not able to replicate with his own fingers and the one lone dildo he ordered from Amazon Prime (who knew they sold sex toys?). More than that, he feels _complete._

It feels like it’s over so fast, this first time, feels like Cas just barely slid into him the first time before the combination of the rub against his prostate and the friction of both of their stomachs against his cock has Dean crying out and spilling between them. Cas continues to rock into him, a little more gently but no less steadily, and he follows Dean over the edge in what feels like seconds.

As it turns out, once Dean finally manages to catch his breath, the bedside clock informs him that it’s been nearly an hour since they staggered into his bedroom. Their arms are tangled around one another tightly as they alternate between staring at one another and indulging in the kind of searing, filthy kisses that apparently still addle Dean’s brain, because he’s honestly not sure he remembers his own name anymore.

After both of their legs stop shaking, they go ahead and take that shower, leisurely exploring each other’s bodies again, as if it’s been years rather than a scant few months, and they must get to know one another all over again. Cas remembers every especially sensitive spot, every erogenous zone, and Dean finds that he has no trouble reconstructing exactly where to nip and lick to have Cas groaning and scraping his nails against the shower wall.

Dean had enough foresight to grab the lube and strip of condoms, thankfully, because as soon as his nails are clean of the ground-in grease from work, he’s turning Cas to face the shower wall and working a pair of fingers carefully into him. He rolls on a condom and enjoys how much he can take his time now that the urgency of their initial orgasms are behind them.

By the time Cas cries out and spills against the shower wall, the water is lukewarm at best. Neither of them notices.

Dean has no idea what time it is when they are finally spent, and doesn’t especially care. He hunts down his phone long enough to tell Bobby he’s taking a sick day tomorrow, then rolls over, looks at the naked man laid out next to him, eyes closed and a small, satiated smile on his face, and sends another text amending that to two sick days. Reaching out, he draws Cas in until his head is pillowed on Dean’s chest, his arms wrapping around the man as tightly as if he thinks Cas is likely to try to sneak out in the middle of the night.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Cas yawns as if he can read Dean’s mind, brushing his lips against his chest lightly.

“Better not,” Dean murmurs, eyes heavy, “or I’ll have to hunt _you_ down.”

“That so?” Cas inquires, eyes a little rueful, “Going to destroy my local grocery store in retaliation?”

“Definitely,” Dean agrees, “might burn down the whole damn place.” He pauses for a second, but fuck it, if ever there was a moment to lay all his cards on the table, this is it. “I know I barely know anything about you,” he says, “but I know _you,_ and I—“ he pauses here, not because he’s reluctant to say it, but because his throat tightens, eyes pricking with tears. He is overcome by the emotion of this moment, the relief in having Cas back in his arms after being so certain he’d never get to have this again.

“I love you too,” Cas says simply, and Dean leans down to crush their lips together.

The kiss lasts a long time, and when it finally breaks, Dean breathes the words against Cas’s lips. He deserves to hear them, not just to know them. “I love you, Cas.”

“Tiel.”

“…huh?”

“Castiel. ‘S my full name.”

“I love you, Castiel.”

~*~

The clock on the bedside table reads 1:47 AM when the Star Wars theme song suddenly sounds through the room. Dean turned off his phone’s Do Not Disturb feature specifically for Charlie weeks ago, on the off chance she might call him with good news in the middle of the night. Groaning a little, keeping one arm tight around Cas, Dean flails until he grabs the phone and drags it up to his ear.

“Charlie?” He mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“Dean!” Charlie squeals, her excitement palpable, “you’re never gonna believe—his name is Castiel Novak, and he’s a melittologist (which I didn’t even know was a thing but it means he studies bees) at Cornell University but he’s actually attending a convention in South Dakota at the moment and oh shit I buried the lede but _I found him!”_

Still half asleep, Dean glances down at the man, his face peaceful and unlined, who is slumbering against his chest, drooling just slightly. His lips tug upward into a slight smile, and he leans down to brush a kiss against the top of Castiel Novak’s head, his voice soft.

“So did I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Dean/other (but not really)


	14. July 22 – 25, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited, and it feels so good.
> 
> In more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

This bed isn’t familiar. It’s too soft and the pillows are wrong. The room isn’t familiar either. There’s the ticking of an analog clock coming from somewhere just shy of outside earshot that serves to disorient Castiel as he drifts back towards wakefulness, and the light is coming from a window that’s on the wrong side of the room. The curtains are too heavy and the room too dark, but Castiel is the furthest thing from uncomfortable. The room isn’t familiar at all, but the man curled up against Castiel’s side with his arm over Castiel’s waist is, and that’s the most peaceful, comforting thing he can imagine.

Dean stirs, slowly waking, and his arms tighten around Cas. “Morning,” he mutters.

“My name is Castiel Zachariah Novak,” Cas blurts out. “I was born in Pontiac, Illinois, but I grew up in New York City and now I live upstate. I live in a two-bedroom house with an apple tree in the back yard, and I never do anything with the apples. I knew I was gay when I was twelve years old, and I knew I was in love with you one week after we left St John. “

Dean’s absolutely silent for three seconds, and then he bursts out laughing.

“What?” Cas demands. “What’s so funny?!”

“I just…I have been daydreaming about learning all about you for going on two months now, and this is just not exactly how I thought it would go.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Is anything about us the way you’d have expected it to go?”

“No. I guess not. Well, fair’s fair. My full name is Dean Michael Winchester, and I was born and raised in Lawrence Kansas, but I moved here to Sioux Falls with my Dad and brother when I was 18. My uncle Bobby taught me how to restore my Dad’s car after he died in a wreck, and when he saw I was good at it he gave me a job at his garage.  I bought this house for next to nothing because it was falling apart at the seams and fixed it up with my own two hands, and if I had an apple tree I’d use the apples to make pies, but I’ve never been good at making things grow. You already know I wasn’t sure about liking men before I met you, but I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, and I want to kiss you right now.” And he does. Dean kisses Castiel slow and sweet, teasing at the seam of his lips with the point of his tongue, running fingers through the mess of Castiel’s hair. By the time they break away, Castiel’s smiling, and Dean is too.

 “I’ve missed waking up like this.”

“Me too,” Dean agrees. “So how did you…”

“Find you?” Castiel finishes, earning a nod. “My half-brother Gabriel. He’s…well, he’s a smooth talker, let’s say that. And after I called the hotel he was fairly certain they wouldn’t speak to me again so he got involved. Lucky me.”

“Lucky _us,”_ Dean corrects. “So you have the sister that got married, you have your smooth talking half-brother. What about the rest of your family? I wanna know everything about you now. I mean…I did before too. But we made that rule and I…”

“I know,” Cas confirms. “I wanted to know you too. I wish we’d never made that rule. But yeah, now, it’s just me and Anna and Gabriel. And our parents, of course. Anna was my mother’s child from her first marriage, Gabriel was my father’s from his. We had this whole Brady Bunch thing going except without the saccharine sweetness and the bell bottoms. My father is a workaholic who’s disappointed in everything I’ve ever done or will do, and my mother thinks my sexuality is a choice I made that she can talk me out of. Although, to be fair, if I wasn’t so hell-bent on escaping them the night of the wedding, I’d never have been on the beach to save you in the first place. So I guess they’re not _all_ bad.”

“If I ever meet them, remind me to thank them for that. You said now it’s just you guys. It wasn’t always?” Dean speaks slowly, like he’s choosing his words with caution. Castiel appreciates it, but now that he doesn’t have to hide all the identifying details, he wants to tell Dean everything.

“I used to have a twin brother,” he admits, his voice quiet. “He…he died when I was very young. I still go visit him on our birthday every year.”

“I’m so sorry, Cas.” Dean holds him close. “I know a little about losing someone like that. I was four when my mom died, and Dad—well, Dad was a real piece of work after that. Nearly drank himself into the grave more than once. Finally kicked it a few years back while Sam was away at school. Now it’s just me and Sam. Well, and Jess now.”

“You and your brother are close, though?” Cas is sure they must be. He knows Sam called a few times while they were stuck on the island.

“Hell yeah,” Dean affirms. “Sammy’s my boy. Damn good kid."

Castiel heaves a heavy sigh and pulls Dean closer. “God, there’s just, there’s so much I want to ask you about. So much I want to tell you! I don’t even know where to start!”

“I know! I wanna give you the full Dean Winchester experience. I feel like we missed out on a whole lot when we were at the resort.” Dean leans up to kiss Cas, and when their bodies shift, he can feel the insistent pressure of Dean’s cock against his thigh.

“Hmm,” Cas murmurs. “Seems like that’s not all you wanna give me.”

“New plan,” Dean suggests. “We consider the exchange of family histories tabled for now, and we continue getting reacquainted in the physical sense.”

Cas skates his hand down Dean’s chest to dip below the waistband of his boxers, the only garment he bothered to put on after their last round of the night. Was it three or four? Castiel can’t remember. It doesn’t really matter though. He plans to have Dean as many times and in as many ways as he can before they have to say goodbye again, only this time, he’ll be leaving with a phone number and concrete plans on when they’ll get to meet again. His fingertips find Dean’s cock, already half hard, and he begins to trail them lightly along Dean’s length, teasing him to full attention.

“I like this new plan,” he murmurs, kissing Dean like the taste of his lips is the very thing that sustains life. “I like this new plan very much. I’ve been thinking about the way you feel when I’m inside you almost non-stop since that last night on the island.”

Dean groans, back arching as he enjoys the languid pace of Cas’s hand on his cock. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about that, too. Among other things.”

“Oh yeah?” Cas kisses his way down Dean’s throat, finding those spots that make him moan and catch his breath. “Like what?”

“Like I’ve been thinking about how if I ever found you again, I was gonna let you tie me up proper, with ropes and shit.” Dean rushes the words out without stopping to breathe, a hurried admission that’s out before he can think to hesitate.

“Fuck.” Castiel bites out the curse. “And me without my ropes.”

“You take handcuffs on vacation but you don’t have anything with you when you’re travelling stateside?”

“There’s always the chance of meeting someone…like-minded while I’m on vacation,” Cas explains. “I don’t tend to have the free time necessary for anything like that when I’m travelling for work.”

“Well that’s a crying shame,” Dean gripes, but he’s already shimmying out of his boxers. “Guess we’ll have to settle for plain old boring sex, then.”

“Oh no,” Cas tells him with a shake of his head. “There will be no boring. I’ll just have to get more creative.” He climbs off the bed and strides over to Dean’s closet, digging around for a few moments until he finds some suitable supplies. Dean opens his mouth like he plans to protest but then shuts it, nodding assent. Castiel comes back with a couple of neckties, the sash off of Dean’s bathrobe, and one of Dean’s slippers.

“What’s the slipper for?” Dean settles back on his elbows and watches as Cas drops the items onto the bed.

“Why, to spank you with, of course.” Cas’s grin is positively wicked. “I seem to recall you turning some lovely shades of red last time we tried that. I’d like to have another go. You remember your safeword?”

 “Umbrella.” Dean exhales sharply as Cas reaches out to trail fingertips up the inside of his thigh.

“That’s my good boy.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Cas pats his lap with one hand. “Come over here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. You don’t wanna crawl into my lap?” He gives Dean this look like he’s actually offended by the question, but they both know he doesn’t mean it.

“Fine,” Dean agrees, falsely begrudging. He pushes himself up to hands and knees and crawls over until he can get himself situated. Cas places one hand on the small of his back, exerting just a little bit of pressure until Dean gets the hint and lowers himself to drape across Cas’s lap. Dean’s cock bumps against Cas’s thigh, leaving a smear of precome in its wake.

Cas glides the palm of his hand over Dean’s ass, squeezing gently just to see how Dean reacts. “I’m going to spank you,” he says plainly, still caressing and squeezing Dean’s cheeks.

“Yeah, you said that. I’m on board.”

“I’m going to spank you once for each day that passed since I last saw you. Do you know what you’re being punished for, Dean?”

Dean laughs. “Fuck if I know.”

“I saw that dildo in your drawer when I went in there for a condom. I’m fairly certain I staked a claim on this ass. I am also fairly certain I didn’t give you permission to play with my toys.” Cas slaps Dean’s ass once, just for emphasis.

“Dude are you serious? My ass is definitely not a toy.”

“Isn’t it? Baby, I’m always serious. And right now, I’m going to make you seriously think about putting anything in this tight ass without asking me first.”

This time, Dean doesn’t protest at all. He doesn’t give any indication that he resents the implication of control. He groans and squirms in Cas’s lap. Cas gives his ass another firm squeeze as a warning.

“Seventy-one days,” Cas announces conversationally. “Seventy-one long days since I last turned this ass red. That’s too many days.”

“You’re telling me,” Dean agrees. “About seventy-one too many.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” His hands skim over the curve of Dean’s ass, gentle touches that carry the promise of what’s to come. “You ready, baby?”

“Would it matter if I said no?” Dean shoots back, ever the brat.

“Of course it would. I’m never going to spank you if you honestly withdraw consent. But unless I miss my guess, that’s not where you’re headed with this line of questioning?”

“Get on with it,” Dean grumbles, but his tone is fond. It warms Cas’s heart, this easy back and forth, but it also stirs something else, something much more primal, to hear Dean shift from the defiant playfulness into that place where he submits so easily.

“Very well.” Cas hand falls on Dean’s ass without any further warning, stinging smartly as he works methodically to turn Dean’s pale skin a nice warm pink. It only takes ten or so well placed smacks before both his hand and his canvas start to give off a little heat, and another five before Cas decides Dean is warmed up enough for the somewhat sharper sting of the leather sole of the slipper. Dean yelps with surprise the first time it connects with his ass but manages to retain at least a shred of the stoicism he has decided to cling to after that, muffling his noises with his lower lip drawn between his teeth.

“Oh no,” Cas chides him softly. “It’s been far too long since I heard the kind of noises you make when I get my hands on you. Don’t hold anything back, sweetheart. Sing for me.” And he lays into Dean again with full force, striking his ass with the slipper in an erratic pattern that keeps him guessing. Sometimes he strikes just along the lower curve of Dean’s ass right where it meets his thighs. Sometimes it’s the fullest part of his cheeks, already blotchy red and pink. Even the backs of his thighs get some attention. Long before they reach the prescribed seventy-one swats, Dean is wriggling in Cas’s lap (which is a joy unto itself), whimpering and moaning as he tries to lessen the sting of each passing stroke but never really trying to escape.

By the time Cas has finished delivering the promised strokes, his own cock is nearly painfully hard, and there’s a fat wet streak on his thigh from where Dean’s been leaking precome as he takes his punishment. Another time he might drag this out, rake his fingernails across Dean’s reddened skin until he’s weeping and begging. It would be beautiful. He could tease Dean right up until the brink, hold the promise of a good fuck just out of reach and have some fun playing around with his boy but honestly, right now, Cas doesn’t have the patience. It’s been a long seventy-one days, and though it’s only been a handful of hours since they last went at it, Cas doesn’t have it in him to deny either of them any longer. So almost as soon as the seventy-first smack falls, his hands are rubbing soothing circles on Dean’s fiery ass as he murmurs softly.

“I trust that was sufficient to let the lesson sink in,” he states plainly when Dean’s whimpering subsides.

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies, but it’s not meek submission. He’s all cocky bravado again, the line delivered with so much self-assuredness that Cas is almost willing to forgive the attitude.

Almost.

Cas’s hand lands on Dean’s ass so sharply and so heavily that it drives the sass right out of Dean in one high-pitched yelp. His hands fly back as if there’s a chance he can shield his ass from further assaults, but it’s both unnecessary and futile. Cas could easily pin those hands at the small of Dean’s back if he wanted to, and that’s the only blow he intends to deliver.

“You were saying?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean states again, this time without any hint of mockery. “Lesson learned.”

“And what lesson did you learn?” Cas can’t help himself. It’s just too much fun to poke at him like this.

Dean sighs heavily before replying. “That my ass is yours,” he concedes.

“That’s my good boy. And if you want to play with my toys, I’m sure you’ll ask me for permission next time. I’m not an unreasonable man; I know how to share. Now are you going to get yourself on the bed, face down with your ass in the air so I can remind you how much better my dick is than some silicone imitation?”

The fact that Dean doesn’t offer a verbal reply isn’t really a mark against him because he moves to obey with such startling quickness that Cas is genuinely impressed. Before ten seconds have passed, Dean is exactly as commanded, face down on the bed with his ass presented, just waiting for Cas to take it. Cas admires the sight for just a moment before grabbing two of the pillows from the head of the bed, tucking them neatly under Dean’s hips to prop him up. Since Dean’s not even looking, he undresses quickly and without any showmanship, then climbs onto the bed behind his beautiful boyfriend.

He doesn’t waste any time at this point. The ties come into play quickly, binding Dean’s hands at the small of his back. Cas doesn’t tie too tight, as silk has a tendency to slip and tighten, but it’s enough to keep Dean right where he wants him, and plenty to give Dean the illusion of helplessness they both know he craves. Dean gets suitable prep, plenty of lube and enough of a stretch to make sure he’s good and ready, but it’s perfunctory and takes the exact bare minimum time. He’ll tease Dean later. Right now, it’s just about getting his dick in Dean’s ass as fast as humanly possible. While he rolls on a condom, Cas drinks in the sight. It just looks so _good_ , bright pink and presented so nicely. It’s everything he could possibly want.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Cas croons, stroking his hands soothingly across Dean’s hips as he nudges the head of his cock against Dean’s entrance. “That’s my good boy.” Dean moans, pleased at the praise and probably just as happy about the dick in his ass. Soon, he’s sunk in all the way, the flesh of his thighs pressed against the heat of Dean’s skin, and it’s the most beautiful kind of warmth. His thrusts are slow and measured, drawing out almost all the way before pushing forward again until his hips are pressed right up against Dean’s ass. Slow draw out, pause, slow surge forward. It’s not enough to get either of them off, though, so it’s not long before Cas abandons that approach. He drapes himself over Dean’s back, wrapping an arm around his chest to hold him close, and begins to rock his hips faster, sharp little motions that have Dean gasping.

It’s so much better like this. Cas can feel everything. He can feel the heat radiating from Dean’s cheeks, the remnant of his spanking making the skin hot and tender. He can feel another kind of heat entirely, the tightness of Dean’s ass enveloping him. And he can feel Dean’s body moving beneath him, moving with him.

He can also feel when Dean stops trying to match his motions to Cas’s and just becomes pliant, his muscles going lax as Cas works in him. The mix of pain and pleasure has pushed him to that place where nothing else exists, just the intensity of the sensation overwhelming his brain. He still makes these gorgeous little fucked out noises, half formed moans and abortive grunts. He makes softer noises, contented almost-sighs when Cas presses lips to his cheek, his neck, his shoulder. Dean’s so perfect like this, when he stops trying to be any of the things he thinks he’s supposed to be and just lets himself enjoy it, and that’s what pushes Cas over the edge in the end. Dean’s submission is so pure, so perfect, there’s nothing he can do to resist the beauty of it, and he comes with a strangled groan, grinding his hips against Dean’s abused ass until his cock goes soft.

But he’s not done with Dean yet. The man makes a displeased noise when Cas pulls out and discards the condom. Cas shushes him, stroking his flanks gently, and coaxes Dean to roll onto his back. Dean rolls easily, still in that pliant place, only flinching a little when the reddened flesh of his ass makes contact with the sheets. It’s probably not particularly comfortable for his hands, but Cas plans to make Dean feel so good that he won’t really have time to notice that. Cas tosses aside the pillows that held Dean’s hips aloft and swallows his cock down all in one go, letting the slick head bump against the back of his throat and delighting in the startled cry it pulls from his boy’s throat. Dean writhes with pleasure, struggling not to buck up into the wet heat of Cas’s mouth.

If the heady groan that fills the air is any indication, Dean is caught completely off guard when Cas decides to push two fingers into the slickness of Dean’s hole, thrusting in and out just fast enough to match the motions of his mouth. He works Dean with hand and mouth, the dual assaults of pleasure hurtling him towards orgasm, and then suddenly Dean stiffens and cries out. Cas swallows down every drop, working his tongue over the head of Dean’s dick until he’s oversensitive and shuddering at the touch.

“Now I really wish I had my toys,” Cas says as he’s untying Dean’s arms. “I’d love to put a plug in you, nothing too big, just enough to keep you stretched so I can slide right in next time I want you.” He massages Dean’s wrists gently, checking to make sure he didn’t sustain any injuries while he was bound up and fucked into oblivion. Satisfied, Cas presses gentle kisses to each one, and another on Dean’s lips.

Dean whimpers softly.  “Yes. That. I definitely want that. Maybe I should get some toys of my own though.”

“A brilliant plan,” Cas assures him. “I only wish you’d thought of it sooner.”

“Well I kinda did.” Dean tugs his boxers back on and shifts over to one side of the bed so Cas can recline beside him. “I thought about getting some toys, anyway. But I was worried I’d never see you again, and I didn’t really think I’d want to spend all this time fantasizing about what we’d do when we got back together and then end up with stuff we’d never get to use.”

“That’s a depressing thought,” Cas laughs grimly.

“Tell me about it. So yeah, no toys yet. Well, except that dildo but man, I tell you, it doesn’t feel anywhere near as good as your dick.”

“Nothing ever does,” Cas sighs airily. “Tell you what. This week…weekend…whatever it is, I don’t really wanna leave this bed for any longer than we need to, but next time we see each other we’ll go shopping. I’ll help you pick out an excellent arsenal.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean agrees. “So about that. Where is home? How much travel time we looking at, here? Is this a next state over booty call kinda thing or are you usually on the other side of the country?”

Cas laughs. “I guess that’s the risk of revealing all the details mere seconds after waking up. They don’t all stick.”

“We talked about this already?” Dean asks, his face screwed up in confusion.

“Not quite,” Cas informs him. “I mentioned where I live, but not much more than that. I’m at Cornell University in upstate New York, so with layovers this trip was about 8 hours end to end. Too far to visit every weekend, but not the other end of the planet.”

“Ugh. So, way too far to drive then?” Dean grimaces.

“Well, I guess.” Cas grabs his phone off the nightstand while he speaks. “I’m not sure why you’d want to drive though, there’s an airport 50 miles away and it’ll be way faster to fly. Ah yes. According to the miracle of technology, it’s a 20-hour drive, depending on traffic.”

“That’s a bit of a road trip. Who are you calling?”

Cas silences him with a finger held aloft, putting the phone to his ear. “Hello, Hannah? Yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Listen, something’s come up, and I’m going to miss the remainder of the conference. Yes, I’m certain, nothing’s wrong. I’ll get my flight changed for the way home. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. I promise, everything is okay, but this can’t wait. Yes, I understand. Okay, you too. Thank you.” He sets the phone down and grins at Dean. “Sorry. I realized just now I never actually told my department chair I wouldn’t be back for today’s sessions. I’m supposed to be at an entomology conference this week. How convenient that the university that’s hosting it just happens to be just over in Brookings.”

“So you’re off the hook then?”

Cas shrugs his shoulders. “I’ll probably get an earful when I get home. It’s really not the most professional thing to do, bailing out halfway through an event like this. But as I told her, this can’t wait.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic,” Dean teases, but he leans in to kiss Cas anyway, and for a few moments, they’re both lost in the blissful knowledge that they can share casual kisses like this now.

“You know what else can’t wait?” Dean asks when they finally break apart, rolling off the bed and rummaging on the floor for a pair of pants. “Breakfast. I’m starving. Come on, I’ll make coffee and you can tell me all about what it’s like to be a big shot melittologist.”

“No one’s ever called me a big shot before,” Cas laughs. “And I’m impressed that you know the right term.”

“Well, you have Charlie to thank for that. She’s the one who found you for me, although technically, you found me first. She called last night after you fell asleep.” Dean tugs on a shirt with a band logo on the front, one that looks like it’s been well-loved over the years. “She’s amazing with computers. If she wasn’t so busy with work lately I’m sure she would have found you sooner.”

Cas finds his pants in the hallway outside the bedroom, slipping them on and following Dean downstairs to the kitchen. Dean’s already busy at the coffee maker, heaping grinds into the filter with one hip leaned against the counter. Cas pauses in the doorway, just watching the casual, easy way Dean moves. He’d missed out on this last time they were together. Nothing about their time together at the resort had any of the trappings of a normal life. It was all so removed from reality, like a dream. And it was beautiful and exciting and enticing, but _this_ is what he really wants. He wants normal with Dean. He wants lazy mornings with coffee and kisses, he wants plans for the weekend and plans for the future. He wants Dean, whatever way he can have him.

“You just gonna stand in the doorway?” Dean calls out to him, grinning as the coffee maker percolates away.

“I was just…”

“Watching me like a creeper?” Dean supplies helpfully.

“Admiring.”

“Admiring my coffee making skills?”

“Yes.” Cas nods with certainty. “Admiring your coffee making skills, and appreciating the fact that I get to stand in your kitchen and watch you make coffee right now, when this time yesterday I didn’t know if… _when_ I’d ever see you again. I feel lucky. I don’t plan to take that for granted.”

Dean gestures to the kitchen table, strewn with newspapers and unopened mail. Cas pulls out a chair and seats himself comfortably, waiting for Dean to start the interrogation anew. There’s still so much to share, so much they _would_ have discussed already if they hadn’t had that stupid rule, and it doesn’t exactly come naturally to go back and fill in the blanks. Instead, Dean just sits down across the table, reaching out to capture one of Cas’s hands in his own. And it takes a few moments for Cas to realize it, but Dean’s not about to start talking, and it takes him even longer to figure out why.

It’s the silence.

It’s comfortable.

They don’t need a structured quid pro quo of information. It doesn’t need to all flow out right now. They want it to, and who could blame them? The moratorium on information kept them from sharing all the things they wanted at the right moments, so of course they want to make up for lost time and opportunities. But the companionable silences you have with someone you truly know, they happen whether you have all the details or not. When you have that visceral connection with someone, the details are irrelevant. It doesn’t matter whether you know their middle name or their blood type or where they went to school. You don’t need to have a top ten list of their favourite movies. You just need their presence, maybe a little physical contact, and the silence can fill all the space you let it.

They sit like that until the coffee is ready. Dean pushes his chair away from the table, legs scraping against the linoleum. He doesn’t say a word as he putters around, but he does whistle.

“What’s that tune?” Castiel asks him. “I feel like I’ve heard it before but I can’t place it.”

“Enter Sandman.” Dean sets a mug down in front of Castiel, turning the handle to face his hand, then takes a sip of his own. “Metallica.”

“Ah,” Cas replies. He can’t actually recall ever hearing that particular song before, at least not to know it, but the melody still rings familiar. Without thinking, he takes a sip of his coffee, forgetting that he hasn’t had the chance to doctor it the way he’s used to. The sweetness of honey explodes on his tongue. “You remembered how I take my coffee?”

“Of course I did,” Dean beams. “I remembered how you take your coffee and I remembered you can’t swim. And all the things you taught me about Japanese honeybees. And I…did you ever get your car fixed, by the way?”

Castiel laughs heartily. “I did, as a matter of fact. The dealership was…hesitant. But I pressed, and it turns out you were right. “

“Good. I thought I might be.” Dean’s broad smile falters for a moment. “I wanted to say something at the time. It’s so fucking stupid. If you were just some random person I met at a party, it would have been no problem at all for me to be like, _hey, I’m a mechanic, trust me this is bad, here’s how to fix it_. But I was so afraid of…well, of exactly what ended up happening anyway.”

Cas sets his coffee mug down and takes hold of Dean’s hand with both of his own. “We were stupid, weren’t we?”

“Well I can’t speak for you,” Dean says with a wry smile. “But I’m thinking I was pretty fucking stupid to think I wasn’t going to fall for you. I mean, even if you weren’t just like _way_ too hot, and stupidly good in bed, I’m still fairly certain I would have found a way to get all wrapped up in you.”

“You’re disgustingly sweet,” Cas replies sarcastically.

“I’ll tell you what’s disgustingly sweet,” Dean teases. “That abomination you call a cup of coffee. You done with that?” Cas isn’t, but he pushes the cup aside anyway in favour of leaning forward to kiss Dean. It’s meant to be a tender thing, sweet like the coffee Dean sees fit to disparage, but the second their lips meet it becomes clear that sweet and tender is off the table. It takes only a few moments before the kiss turns into something heated and they’re both pawing at each other, and Cas isn’t quite sure who starts it but before long Dean is dragging him back upstairs for what is sure to be just one of many rounds of the day.

~*~

And that’s pretty much how the whole trip to South Dakota is destined to go, apparently. Brief interludes of conversation, huge info-dumps and casual chatter interspersed with all the sex they can handle. Maybe more than they can handle, if the sluggish way they drag themselves downstairs for dinner is any indication. But pretty much the minute they’ve had their fill of Chinese takeout from Dean’s favorite place, Cas is pulling Dean into his lap. Dean grinds down on Cas’s already hardening cock and somehow, despite the fact that Cas, personally, cannot even remember how many times they’ve had sex so far today, they rut together like that, groaning into one another’s mouths as they kiss, until they’re a mess of sweat and come once again.

When Dean regains his breath and the ability to speak again, he climbs off of Cas’s lap and sprawls on the couch. “So what next?” he asks, deceptively casual.

“Shower?” Cas suggests. He really should have brought more clothes with him from the hotel. There’s only one more pair of clean boxers in his overnight bag. “And then I’m thinking, just to switch things up, I’ll tie you down and ride your cock.”

Dean laughs, full and throaty. “I’m not gonna say no to any of that, not by a long shot. But I was talking more…big picture. You’re here for another couple of days, right? Then what?”

It isn’t the conversation Cas expected to be having in the afterglow. Realistically, it’s a conversation that has to be had, but it isn’t an easy one. Then what? How do they go on from here? It’s better than the last time a departure loomed over them, that’s for sure, but only by merit of the fact that they have names and phone numbers to connect with faces and the memory of orgasms.

“Well,” Cas ventures carefully, “like I said, it’s about eight hours takeoff to touchdown for air travel. I don’t have classes on Fridays in the coming fall semester. I mean, it wouldn’t be every weekend, but I’m willing to carve out a fairly sizeable chunk of my days off. The last couple of months wondering if I’d ever see you again, that was hard. Nearly impossible. I’ll do whatever it takes to give this a fighting chance. We’ll fly back and forth as much as we can. We can do this.”

Dean is quiet for a long moment, the steady sound of his breaths the only thing that intersperses the nearly imperceptible noises of the settling house. It goes on long enough that Cas is beginning to think something unpleasant lingers behind the unsaid words when Dean draws one more shaky breath.

“I…don’t fly well,” he admits slowly, quietly. “Always been kinda freaked out by the idea of it. I’d only flown a couple times before Sammy’s wedding, and I had panic attacks every time. If Jess hadn’t set me up with a valium for the trip to St. John, I might not have even made it onto the plane.”

“So you don’t fly,” Cas replies, his tone firm and decisive. “I come to you.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Dean demands, incredulous. “You’re willing to spend that much time in the air for some asshole you met on vacation?”

Cas shoves him sideways. It’s somewhere between punitive and playful. “Don’t call my boyfriend an asshole. It’s rude.” A smile spreads across Dean’s face, replacing whatever kind of worry tried to settle in over the topic of air travel.

“That’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think?” Dean chides, but his eyes are bright and his smile genuine. “I mean, we didn’t meet that long ago. Maybe I’m not ready to be someone’s boyfriend.” And it’s true. They really haven’t known each other that long, but they do know each other _well,_ and Cas has already learned quite conclusively that Dean is a bit of a sarcastic shit when the situation calls for it (and also when it doesn’t), so there’s no mistaking this for a true brush-off.

“Fine. Don’t say boyfriend then,” Cas tells him placidly. “Say lover. Say paramour. Say…whatever you want to say. But whatever you wanna call it, say you’ll let me spend as much time in the air as I can stomach so I can keep flying down here and spending weekends with you.”

“I’ll drive up.” Dean speaks in such a way that Cas can’t tell if it’s a promise or a demand, but it warms his heart either way.

“Sometimes,” Cas tells him. “That’s a long time on the road. But I’d love to show you my place.”

“When’s your birthday?” Dean asks.

Cas answers instinctively. “September 18th. I just realized, I don’t know when yours is either.”

“January 24th,” Dean offers. “Hmm. Virgo and Aquarius. That’s a pretty solid match.”

Cas gives him a warily flat stare. “Oh hell no. You actually believe in that shit? This has been a terrible mistake. We never should have avoided personal information. What have I gotten myself into?”

“Oh God no,” Dean assures him, choking back laughter. “No. It’s all crap. But had this girlfriend, she was a yoga instructor, and…anyway, I couldn’t avoid learning something about it.”

“Well that’s a relief. I’d hate to think I spent all this time worrying that I’d never see you again only to have to run screaming because you believe the celestial bodies determine how we interact.”

“Hard no. But even if they did, fuck the stars, man. They couldn’t keep me from you if they tried.” Dean links his fingers with Cas’s, smiling sweetly.

“You charmer,” Cas replies, blushing.

“Alright then, it’s settled. I’m driving up for your birthday. I’ll make the time off happen. I mean, that is—if you want me to.”

“Couldn’t think of any way I’d rather celebrate getting another year older.”

And the shower Cas suggested seems like an excellent cap off to the conversation, so they do end up cleaning up. Neither of them has any illusions about what it’s going to accomplish though. They’re just gonna tumble back into bed and start getting dirty again.

~*~

This time, when Dean and Cas part ways, it’s a whole different ballgame. There’s no stoic farewell on a beach at sunrise, no glancing back over their shoulders to get one last look. There’s no lonely shuttle ride to the airport, and there’s certainly no despondency. There’s kisses this time. There’s a hug that seems to last forever, and keeps on going long past that. There’s promises they both plan to keep, and more importantly than that, there’s plans. Cas’s birthday is still nearly two months away, but they _plan_ to see each other again before that. They _plan_ to talk on the phone, and once Dean figures out how to install the program on his decrepit computer, they’re going to do skype dates too.

It’s not going to be easy. But they’re going to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** John Winchester's A+ Parenting, mentions of historical character death, bondage, spanking, bottom!Dean


	15. July 25 – August 28, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few false starts, Dean and Cas get the long-distance communication thing sorted out, and Dean discovers that you can't live in Narnia forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

“Okay, what gives?” Sam demands as soon as Dean answers the phone on Monday afternoon.

“What do you mean, what gives? Nothing gives. Should something give?” Does he sound defensive? He might sound a little defensive.

“I mean, you were gonna come over for dinner on Friday, and not only did you fail to show, you didn’t answer any of the fifteen or so calls and texts Jess and I left you, and when I finally showed up at your work on Saturday morning, Bobby tells me you called in sick for Friday _and_ Saturday. I don’t think you’ve ever voluntarily called in sick in your damn life, and I know perfectly well you were just fine on Thursday afternoon when we talked. So I ask again, _what gives?”_

“I had a—“

“So help me, if you tell me you had a headache, I’m going to tell Jess you have a migraine and sic her on you.”

“Oh, come _on,_ that’s dirty pool,” Dean objects. Jess will have him locked down in a dark, silent room for a solid three days before she drags him to get an MRI or some shit. Somewhere along the way, she got the impression that Dean downplays any illness or malady, so anytime he voluntarily admits to feeling poorly, she tends to assume he’s actually dying. Dean’s got no idea how to stop the vicious cycle.

See, what had happened was, Dean had a nasty bug the first time Sam actually brought Jess back to Sioux Falls during a school break from Stanford. There was no way Dean was going to ruin the first visit of a girl he could already tell Sam was head over heels for. Determined to push through, he insisted that he was really fine, despite all evidence to the contrary.

In pre-med and already seriously no-nonsense at the time, Jess was having none of it and somehow managed to bully Dean into an urgent care center, where they discovered that he had a bad case of walking pneumonia. From that moment on, Jess became convinced that Dean couldn’t be trusted with his own well-being, and despite himself, Dean had to admit by the end of the weekend that she was more than a match for Sam. As they left for the airport (in a cab; Jess insisted that Dean be confined to bed and well-medicated with the steroids and this gnarly cough syrup that made him seriously loopy that the urgent care doctor had prescribed), he told Sam not to fuck it up. Somehow, miraculously, Sam hadn’t.

Anyway, the point is, Dean does _not_ want Jess getting wind that he isn’t feeling well. Especially since he’s actually feeling just fine.

“Don’t make me do it,” Sam threatens, and Dean knows better than to think the threat is empty.

“Fine, fine! I…had company.”

There is a long moment of silence. “You’re telling me you stood Jess and me up, called out for two days, and went totally incommunicado because you were fucking some girl?”

“That’s…not actually what I’m telling you,” Dean says, kind of weakly. What? He definitely wasn’t fucking some girl. He was getting fucked by some guy. There’s completely a difference.

“Dean, _come on._ I thought we were past you making ridiculously stupid decisions for a piece of ass.”

“That is _out of line,_ Sammy,” Dean growls, unable to stomach Cas being referred to as ‘a piece of ass.’ He’s a hell of a lot more than that.

The silence from Sam’s end of the phone is even longer this time. “Oh my God,” Sam says, wonder in his voice, “she _means something_ to you. I thought you were all hung up on that girl…what was it, Cass? From St. John? I mean, it’s been months, I guess it’s kind of good that you’re moving on, Jess and I were starting to—“

Dean finally interrupts, unable to let this go on. “Cool it, Sam. Yes, this is more than just a booty call, and no, I’m not moving on.”

“That doesn’t even—wait. Wait a minute. Do you mean—were you holed up with _Cass_ this weekend, dude?”

“Guilty as charged,” Dean admits, rubbing one of his temples with two fingers. This is probably the moment to have that conversation with Sam, right? Sort of the perfect opening.

“You found her?” Sam demands.

“Not exactly—it’s…complicated. I set Charlie on the case, and—“

“Oh, good call. Look, man, I’m really happy for you, and I totally get you guys wanting to hole up and…make up for lost time or whatever, but next time, don’t just go off the grid. And I want to meet her. Wait, is she still here? Where’s she live?”

“Sorry, already left for New York. Ithaca.” Okay, apparently he’s not having this conversation now.

“Damn. Well, next time she’s in town—“

“Yes, fine, I’ll make introductions, we can all go out for brunch or something, let it go, would you?”

“Jesus, Dean, you’re awfully touchy for someone who spent the entire weekend getting—“

“I’m hanging up now.”

“I mean, you even took a couple days off work, so it had to have been three full days of—“

“Goodbye, Sam.”

~*~

The next month is surprisingly busy, which is good in some ways and bad in others. It’s good because Dean doesn’t have time to pine too much over Cas, and also because Sam and Jess don’t really get a chance to grill him about his mysterious new love. It’s bad because Dean manages to find a whole series of excuses not to have the conversation he knows he ought to with them.

The guy who tipped him so well for the last job brings in another two restorations, both of which are a lot more labor-intensive than anything Dean has dealt with before. He can handle it, but he spends a lot of time researching and even more time hunched over them in the shop, working well past when he should probably be going home. Most nights it takes Bobby bodily chasing him out of the shop while threatening to call Jess and tell her Dean’s not getting enough rest. So he’s exhausted most of the time, and when he’s not at work (or hell, even when he _is_ at work in the evenings, after Benny and Garth are gone), he’s talking to Cas.

They talk so much Dean actually buys a fucking Bluetooth headset, despite the fact that he insisted for years he was never gonna be that douchebag. Whatever, he’ll be that douchebag if it means he can talk to Cas while he cooks dinner and does laundry and putters around the house. They even watch movies together, Cas’s snarky commentary in his ear making Dean laugh just as hard as it did on the island.

And that’s not all they do together.

By week two, after they figure out the whole Skype thing isn’t going to happen (Dean’s computer practically caught on fire when he tried to install the program, the thing’s at least eight years old and desperately needs to be replaced, but he put it off because he didn’t actually use it for much except porn) and come down off the high of their incredibly sex-heavy reunion weekend, they’re both getting a little…restless. Dean’s the one who first suggests phone sex (complete with a lot of muttering and some fumbling), and Cas is all about the idea.

It just takes them a little while to make it work. There are some…misfires. The first time, it’s all Dean’s fault.

“Tell me what you’re wearing,” Cas tells him, and ordinarily that smoky, growly order would do all sorts of things to Dean—but it’s just so cliché _._ Tell me what you’re _wearing?_ Seriously?

He really tries to keep it together. He does. And he might’ve gotten himself under control, right up until Cas lowers his voice even more, clearly trying to up the sensual factor, and asks again.

“C’mon, baby, what are you wearing?” Cas demands, sounding like Christian Bale as Batman with a bad case of laryngitis.

Dean loses it. He laughs so hard the Bluetooth falls out of his ear and he has to scrabble for it in the couch cushions. By the time he manages to hunt it down and put it back in his ear, it’s clear to both of them that it just isn’t happening tonight.

The next time is definitely Cas’s fault.

The conversation is starting to get a little steamy and Dean decides, fuck it, he’ll go for it. It’s been a few days since their disastrous first attempt.

“What would you do to me if you were here right now?” Dean asks, aiming for sultry and teasing.

There are a few moments of silence, followed by soft snorting sounds from the other end of the phone. Is Cas…?

Yeah. Yeah, he’s definitely laughing.

Dean isn’t exactly one to talk at this point, so he gives Cas a minute or two to compose himself before inquiring, “wanna tell me what did it that time?”

“Have—have you ever heard of the blog Straight White Boys Texting?” Cas wheezes.

“…no?” Dean says, struck by the distinct impression that he’s been insulted, even if he can’t quite figure out why.

“A winking emoticon and you just earned yourself a spot there, despite your lack of straightness,” Cas chortles. “Go on, check it out, I’ll wait.”

So Dean schleps over to the ancient computer and pulls up the site. The rest of the evening is lost to the two of them laughing maniacally while doing dramatic readings of the various offerings on the blog.

The third time, it’s both of them. They’ve been planning for it all day via text, even letting their text messages get pretty damn explicit (and oh hey, sexting, yet another thing Dean didn’t think he’d ever be doing). By the time they both make it home and get on the phone, it’s pretty clear they’re more than ready. So when Dean says “What are you wear—“ at the same time that Cas is saying “What would you want me to do to you—“ it’s such a spectacular implosion of what had really great potential that they _both_ lose it. Simultaneously.

They laugh so hard that Dean ends up on the floor of the living room clutching his stomach and wiping his eyes, and it’s very clear that nothing sexy is going to be happening that night. Instead, they watch a couple episodes of Dr. Sexy together via Netflix (they’ve got this really elaborate countdown system worked out to ensure that they start it at the same time), even though Cas still says the show is ridiculous. Trust a biologist, even one who doesn’t actually work with humans, to have a whole bunch of opinions on a medical show. Jess is the same damn way.

By all rights they really should’ve given up at this point. Three strikes and all that. They probably would have, except one night they get to talking about the island, and Cas starts to reminisce about certain aspects of their time there and, well… “the look on your face when you told me I wasn’t going to bend you over and spank you like a little girl,” he says, chuckling.

“Oh yeah?” Dean inquires, interested, “what’d I look like?”

“Hopeful and terrified and intrigued and most definitely like someone who needed to be bent over and spanked. But not like a little girl. Like a naughty boy. Like _my_ naughty boy.” His voice gets a little deeper, but not in a ridiculous way this time. In an incredibly sensual way.

“Luckily, I happened to know someone who was up for the challenge,” Dean murmurs, and there’s a low, smoky laugh in his ear.

“Still is, baby. Still is. And from what I hear, someone hasn’t been especially good to himself lately. Working late hours, eating fast food, staying up late talking to some jerk on the phone,” Dean laughs, but a moment later, the sound cuts off as Cas’s voice intensifies, the playful edge replaced by dark promise. “I’m pretty sure I remember telling you to take care of yourself before I left. Didn’t I?”

“Ye—yeah, you did,” Dean says, a little breathless.

“Do you know what happens to boys who disobey?”

“I—“ Dean’s voice actually catches in his throat. Sometime in the last three minutes his cock has taken note. He’s hard as a rock.

“They get punished, Dean. They get their pretty asses turned bright red. And then, if they’re very, very good during their spanking, if they beg just right, they might even get something else.”

“You gonna fuck me, Cas?” Dean breathes. “You gonna fuck my sore ass?”

“Hard enough to make your teeth rattle, baby. Touch yourself.”

Dean does.

~*~

So yeah, they get the phone sex thing figured out, and once they manage the first time without any laughing fits, they make up for lost time. They relive what Cas refers to as their ‘greatest hits’ from the week on the island and their reunion weekend, and then they talk their way through a whole new set of future greatest hits.

Which is probably why, when Dean picks Cas up at the airport exactly a month after watching him drive away in his rental, they only make it halfway home before Dean is pulling off the road into the empty parking lot of a forest preserve. Dean later maintains that he would’ve made it home but for Cas, who insists upon resting his hand on Dean’s thigh—very _high_ on Dean’s thigh—in the car. Hell, they might have made it home even that way, except that Cas starts lightly stroking the thigh in question, and that’s about it for Dean.

Forty minutes later, clothing mussed but at least marginally presentable, Dean squirming a little in his seat due to the enthusiastic pounding his ass just received, the car pulls back out onto the highway and toward home.

Cas’s hand remains possessively on his thigh the entire way.

Dean doesn’t mind.

~*~

He’s taken Friday and Saturday off again, plus Monday—or been forced to, anyway. Bobby figured out that Dean had ‘gone and gotten him’ (in the old man’s words) almost immediately after their whirlwind reunion weekend, clapping Dean on the back with a gruff “I’m happy for ya, boy.” Then he demanded to know when Cas would be returning to town, and when Dean finally caved and told him, Bobby had some choice thoughts: “If you step so much as a single toe into this shop while your fella is in town, I’ll tell him more horror stories about you than you even remember, boy. Take the days off, ya idjit. You got vacation time comin’ out your ass. Use it.”

That actually turned out to be the perfect opportunity for Dean to ask for a week and a half off so he can drive up to Ithaca for Cas’s birthday. Bobby tells him to make it two weeks.  The old man is a crank and the stubbornest creature Dean’s ever met, but there are some pretty awesome things about working for him.  Anyway, the point is, Dean’s got four full days to focus on nothing but Cas, and he plans to do exactly that.

They’ve eaten breakfast in bed and ordered pizza (turns out Cas doesn’t like pineapple on his pizza, which is good cause Dean might’ve had to break up with him if he did), watched random movies on television and snuggled, and laughed themselves stupid about things that probably wouldn’t be funny to anyone else. And, yeah, they’ve fucked. A lot. Like bunnies. Like Energizer bunnies, even. Both of their refractory periods continue to amaze, and in between last trip and this one, they both went ahead and got tested. Since they both (predictably) came back clean, they’ve been able to dispense with the wrapping paper this time, and it’s _incredible._

Dean learned rapidly, even on the island, that Cas is the furthest thing from a morning person possible. Which also means he’s figured out the best ways to wake him up. On this particular Sunday morning, he goes with a blowjob, and Cas is kind enough to return the favor. Afterward they’re lying in bed together, starting to talk about getting up and maybe going out for breakfast when Dean hears it.

He didn’t bother to close the bedroom door last night (why would he? He lives alone), so the sound of the front door opening is easily audible.

Dean freezes. His hand, which was tracing lazy circles on Cas’s arm, suddenly tightens convulsively around that arm. He’s pretty fucking sure he knows what’s going on, and sure enough, a moment later a voice floats down the hall.

“Hey jerk, if you’re trying to keep your special guest a secret, you probably ought to let Bobby know he shouldn’t mention that you’ve taken three days off. Now get your ass out here,” Sam calls, “and bring _Cass_ with you. We’re talking you both to brunch. Don’t make me come in there and haul you out.”

 _“Samuel Henry!”_ Jess’s voice scolds. “Don’t listen to him, Dean, nobody’s coming in there, but we really do want to take you two out. You know we’ve been dying to meet her.” Dean feels Cas startle at the word ‘her.’ _Shit._ “Take your time, get dressed, we’ll wait in the kitchen.”

Their good-naturedly bickering voices fade a little as they withdraw to the kitchen, and Dean presses two fingers to each temple briefly, sitting up as he turns toward Cas. “Babe, listen, I—“

“No, I get it,” Cas says, and despite the fact that he’s clearly aiming for neutral, there’s just a hint of pain behind his eyes. “This is all very new for you. I would never try to rush you, Dean. Coming out is something that needs to happen on your own terms and in your own time, whatever that means to you. Go have brunch with Sam and Jess. I can hang out in here until you leave—just tell them I’m not feeling well, or that I had to leave early.”

By the time he gets to the end of this selfless little speech, Dean is goggling at him, astonished.

“That is _not_ what I was going to say,” he says firmly. “I was gonna say I’m sorry that I procrastinated so long on telling them that now you’re gonna have to deal with the clusterfuck of this announcement. Now get that impossibly sexy ass up and dressed. We’re going to brunch with my brother and his wife.”

Cas stares at him for a long moment, as if trying to read whether Dean really wants this or not, but he must like what he sees, because he leans in for a brief but searing kiss. “I can think of nothing I’d like more,” he says, smiling just slightly as he climbs out of bed.

Dean is dressed first, so he tells Cas to join him whenever he’s ready, then shoves his feet into flip flops and heads out into the kitchen, leaning over to give Jess a kiss on the cheek before he narrows his eyes at Sam. “You couldn’t have called?” He demands dryly.

“Couldn’t risk you ignoring us the way you did last time around,” Sam tells him, grinning. “Shouldn’t have given me a key if you didn’t want me to use it.”

“I’m changing the locks,” Dean grumbles, then speaks up quickly before Sam can bite back. “Listen, you guys. Cas isn’t…what you’re expecting, but I haven’t felt this way about anybody in…hell, maybe ever, so whatever your initial reaction is, you sure as hell better be nice.”

It’s not that he really thinks either of them would be deliberately nasty to Cas, it’s just that people say and do a lot of unintentionally jerky things when they’re shocked. Dean’s seen it more than once, and he won’t have Cas hurt by careless words.

“Dean,” Sam says, voice heavy with disbelief suggesting that he can’t imagine what Dean could possibly do to surprise him at this point, “After that goth girl and the yoga teacher, I’m pretty sure no girl you bring home could possibly surprise me.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Dean says grimly, and Sam’s brows are just starting to knit together in confusion when Dean hears footsteps behind him.

The confusion on Sam’s face pauses for a split second, then intensifies sharply as he stares at a spot just over Dean’s shoulder, his jaw dropping open half an inch. Dean reaches a hand back blindly, and a moment later fingers slide into his. Dean squeezes them reassuringly, drawing Cas forward to stand at his side.

“Sam,” Dean says, “Jess, I’d like you to meet Castiel Novak. My boyfriend.”

Dean doesn’t even notice what Jess’s face does. His eyes are locked on Sam’s face as it goes through a remarkable array of emotions. The confusion is rapidly subsumed by a nearly blank expression that is clearly an attempt to process what he’s seeing, but that only lasts a second or two before it is overcome by utter shock. Sam goggles at Cas, his jaw opening a little further, as if he’s about to speak, then snapping shut, then opening again. His eyes shift to Dean, who nods once, firmly, confirming Sam’s silent question. Yes, this is real. No, he’s not fucking with them. Yes, this is Cas.

The silence lasts only another second, but it’s not Sam who breaks it. Instead, Jess—wonderful, sweet, unflappable Jess, steps forward and extends a hand to Cas, smiling warmly. “Hi, Castiel. I’m Jessica Moore-Winchester, but you can call me Jess. Dean’s told us—“ Here she pauses for a second, then chuckles, “well, he hasn’t actually told us that much about you, but we know how hard he looked for you after St. John.”

Cas slips his hand out of Dean’s to take Jess’s offered hand in his, returning her smile. “I was looking for him, too, but in the end it was more luck than anything that we found each other. I’m so glad to finally meet you—and Sam,” he says, a hint of a question in his voice, as if inquiring whether it’s okay to address Sam. Dean can see Jess squeezing Cas’s hand before she releases it, her smile widening a bit.

“Sam will be with us as soon as he’s done gaping,” Jess says wryly, and Dean totally fails to stifle his snort of amusement. He’s been keeping half an eye on Sam while he watches Jess smoothly and easily take control of the situation, and never let it be said that she doesn’t know her husband well. Gaping is indeed what Sam is doing, but at the mention of his name, he seems to shake himself out of it. He steps up beside Jess and extends his own hand. Cas takes it and they exchange a firm handshake before Sam actually manages to find his voice.

“Sam Winchester,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling up just a hair the way they do when he really _means_ a smile. Dean releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “It’s great to meet you, Cas. I’m sorry about that, I just—“

“Learned something new and very big about your brother,” Cas finishes, smiling. “No apology necessary. It’s quite a big reveal, especially first thing in the morning.”

Dean doesn’t mention the fact that it’s ten AM, which is way past first thing—he and Cas will never agree on this. Anyway, all his focus is reserved for the swelling joy in his chest at how readily Sam and Jess have accepted Cas—and, by extension, _Dean._ Their warm welcome of Cas is more than just that. It means they’re taking this new revelation about Dean in stride, that they’re not going to condemn him. And yeah, logically he’s known forever that the chance of either of them condemning him for his sexuality was somewhere in the negatives, but knowing that and _feeling_ it are two totally different things.

A second later, astonishment overtakes his joy when Sam responds with easy good nature to Cas. “Not exactly,” he says, “or I guess it is a big reveal, but that’s mostly because I was sure Dean was so far in the closet he’d be coming out the other end of Narnia for the next fifty years or so.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to goggle.

“I—you—it… _what?!”_ He splutters, as Jess takes a step back and extends her hand to Sam.

“Speaking of which,” she says, lips quirking, “pay up, Winchester.”

Sam sighs, digging his wallet out of his pants and pulling a pair of fifty dollar bills out of it. He hands them to Jess, who grins and tucks them into her purse.

“So,” she says, “looks like brunch is on me!”

Dean still hasn’t managed to pick his jaw up off the floor by the time they’re ready to go, so Cas grabs his hand and gently hauls him out to the car. They’re halfway to Sam and Jess’s favorite brunch spot before Dean finds his voice again.

“Okay, hold the fuck up,” he says, barreling into a conversation about Ithaca, where Jess’s family apparently spent a number of summers at a cabin on Cayuga Lake. “Are you saying you guys had a _bet_ about whether or not I’d come out?”

“Welcome back,” Sam says, snickering.

 _“How long have you known?”_ Dean demands, trying to sort out how the hell things got twisted around so that _he’s_ the one trying to wrap his mind around an enormous piece of news.

“I had my suspicions since you were maybe nineteen or so, and then when you came out to Stanford for our undergrad graduation, Jess spotted you checking out Brady, and we started comparing notes.”

“And you didn’t think to _mention it to me?”_ Dean demands, remarkably put out for a man who definitely didn’t do any mentioning of his own.

“Coming out is kind of a big deal,” Sam says, glancing in the rearview mirror at Dean, who suddenly realizes that he is actually riding in Sam’s fucking _Prius,_ which is something he generally refuses to do on principle, “and it needed to happen on your terms. Hell, I didn’t even know if _you_ knew on a conscious level, and I wasn’t gonna be the one to tell you if you didn’t. It wasn’t some big conspiracy, Dean. You’re my brother. I love you. I’d love you even if you decided you were attracted to llamas, although from a legal and an animal rights standpoint, I’d strongly advise you against acting on it.” What he’s saying is essentially the same thing that Cas told him—that Dean needed to be the one to decide when and how to come out, and nobody else should force him into it. Dean guesses he can see the wisdom in that, but that doesn’t actually excuse the part where they _bet_ on it. He’s just about to open his mouth to say so when Jess swivels around in her seat.

“And the bet is all my fault,” she pipes up with that weird sixth sense of hers, “so if you want to be pissed at someone for it, aim it over here. Sam said he was worried you’d never be able to face up to it, thanks to your Dad’s macho bullshit. I told him he was underestimating you, and I’d stake a hundred bucks that you came out before you hit forty.”

“Risky bet,” Dean tells her, starting to relax. “You’d probably have lost it if I hadn’t met Cas.”

The man in question, who’s been quiet since Dean finally spoke up, laces his fingers through Dean’s. Dean lifts Cas’s hand and brushes his lips against the back of it.

“I don’t know about that,” Cas tells him fondly, “I think you’d have gotten there either way.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Dean says, smiling wryly, “I was pretty far into Narnia.”

“Well, I’m glad you decided to come to terms with yourself,” Sam says, grinning at Dean in the rearview mirror.

Dean grins back before he swivels his eyes back to Cas. “Some things are worth stepping outside of your comfort zone.”

“Or,” Cas says quietly, and this time he’s the one who brushes his lips across the back of Dean’s hand, “finding a new comfort zone.”

“A better one,” Dean agrees, gazing intently into Cas’s eyes, and Sam groans from the front seat.

“Oh God,” he says, sounding horrified, “is this what you’ve had to deal with from Jess and I?”

Dean blinks, frowning at Sam in confusion. Jess is smothering giggles behind her hand in the passenger seat.

“Is…what, what I’ve had to deal with?”

“The googly eyes? The smoldering looks? The meaningful gazes? The sappy—“

“Yes,” Dean says, lips twitching, “that’s exactly what I’ve had to deal with. For _years._ So buckle up, both of you, cause I have every intention of out-googlying, out-smoldering, and out-gazing you two assholes for the foreseeable future.”

“Fair,” Jess says as Sam snickers, “and for what it’s worth, you guys make a really cute couple.”

They pull into a parking spot and climb out of the car. Jess immediately tucks her hand into Cas’s elbow and a few seconds later they are again engrossed in a conversation about Ithaca and Jess’s childhood memories of the area.

Dean smiles fondly at their backs, then glances to his right and realizes that Sam is wearing exactly the same fond smile. He snorts in amusement, and Sam glances at him.

“He seems like a really great guy, Dean,” Sam says, clapping him on the back. “I’m happy for you.”

Four hours later, Dean won’t remember what he ate for brunch, but he’s pretty sure it’s the best meal he’s ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Sexting, phone sex, accidentally coming out of the closet


	16. September 9 – 18, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a rule about birthdays. The haver of the birthday gets whatever they desire, carte blanche. It’s non-negotiable. It’s set in stone. It’s the only damn reason he’s even considering riding in this…thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

Dean could easily have made the drive from Sioux Falls to Ithaca in one straight shot, he maintains. It wouldn’t even be that hard. He’s done longer drives without more than pee breaks and naps in the back seat. Hell, when Sam went off to Stanford, Dean definitely drove out to California to visit (no way in hell was he getting on a plane just for a long weekend visit) and that was all the way out to the west coast. By comparison, this would be a Sunday drive—or so he tells Castiel. He’s adamant it wouldn’t be a problem and he’d be more than happy to make it happen, get up early in the morning on his first day off and power through several states of traffic to make it out some time in the middle of the night. It’d be easy. It’d be fine.

Cas begs to differ.

“You’re not driving twenty straight hours without rest,” he insists. “That’s deeply stupid.”

“Oh, like for example, standing on a beach in the middle of a hurricane?” Dean argues. “I am an excellent driver.”

“I’m not questioning your driving abilities,” Cas reminds him. “But that’s way too long for you to be on the road in one go. You will drive, at most, halfway, you will stop for the night, and you will drive the rest of the way well-rested and safe. If you get here before Sunday afternoon I will know you have disobeyed me, and I will be forced to find a suitably unpleasant punishment to correct your behavior. Do I make myself abundantly clear?”

“Fine,” Dean grumbles. “But just so we’re on the same page, I’m doing this under protest and I’m only agreeing to double my travel time because it’s really fucking hot when you get all bossy like that. I still totally disagree with your assessment of the situation.”

“That’s all I ask,” Cas tells him. When they hang up the phone, Cas will try to go to bed, but he already knows it’s going to be fruitless. It’s only a few more days to wait before he gets to see Dean again. The anticipation is going to make it pretty damn hard to sleep until he arrives.

~*~

As it turns out, Dean _is_ capable of listening to reason, and it takes him until mid-afternoon on Sunday to arrive at Cas’s house. He calls when he stops for the night on Saturday (later into the evening than Cas would have liked, but whatever) and again when he stops for lunch on Sunday, so they’re able to predict what time Dean’s going to arrive with a decent degree of accuracy. As a result, by ten to three, Cas is standing at his front window, waiting with absolutely no effort made to disguise his anticipation. By ten after, he’s moved to the front porch, and he’s totally not pacing. Nope. He’s not. What he _is_ doing is taking a slow, casual walk back and forth in front of his house, letting his mind wander as he waits very patiently for his boyfriend to arrive. It’s certainly not the kind of nervous excitement that would make a person pace. Not at all.

By 3:30, when Dean’s sleek black car pulls in beside Cas’s much more modern one in the driveway, Cas has given up all pretense of appearing casual. He practically runs to the side of the car when Dean cuts the engine, and Dean only has long enough to get himself out of the car and upright before Cas is on him, throwing his arms around Dean’s neck and dragging him into a kiss that’s so passionate, it goes a long way towards making up for the entire month that’s passed since they last locked lips.

“Hey,” Dean greets him when they break apart, his voice full of affection. “Miss me?”

Cas laughs, then kisses him again. “Like crazy. Come inside. I’ll show you around.” They collect Dean’s things from the trunk of the car and Cas leads the way into his modest but tidy home. It’s not a large house, but it’s comfortable and it’s got everything Castiel needs, especially now that Dean is there. He tries not to think too hard about how empty it’s going to feel in a week and a half when Dean leaves to drive home.

From the moment they cross the threshold, Dean’s head is on a swivel. It’s like he’s trying to memorize every detail of Cas’s home in one go. His eyes flit from the framed degrees on the wall to the artwork above the mantle. Castiel wonders if Dean notices the absence of family photos.

“You have _four_ degrees?” Dean murmurs incredulously. “Four?!”

“Well, yeah,” Cas replies. “Although the bachelor’s degree gets me about as far in my field as a Burger King crown gets you towards actual monarchy. And two of them are Masters. I did a dual study in Entomology and Environmental Sciences, which was kind of necessary to do the work I wanted to do on colony collapse. I haven’t really done anything impressive.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, sure. You just went to school for like, ten extra years and now you’re a pro bug guy. Nothing impressive there.” His eye roll is so intense it’s practically audible.

“Well what about you?” Cas counters. “You showed me pictures of some of the restorations you’ve done. That’s incredibly impressive work. I couldn’t even begin to wrap my brain around some of the stuff you’re capable of creating.”

“It’s nothing,” Dean insists. “I figure out how to make cars look the way the customer wants. I’m just a grease monkey with a GED.”

“Are you serious?” Cas stares at him blankly, totally floored by the self-deprecation.

Clearly, Dean misinterprets his incredulity. “Yeah, probably should have mentioned that sooner. You’re shacking up with a guy so dumb he couldn’t even finish high school. I’m lucky my uncle Bobby runs a garage and took pity on me or I’d probably be flipping burgers ‘til I’m too old to stand behind a grill.” Bag still clutched in his hand, Dean turns towards the door. “This was a mistake. I should go.”

Cas stops his exit with a firm hand on Dean’s arm, fingers clutching at the rough twill of his jacket. “Don’t you dare,” he warns. “Don’t even think about walking out that door.”

“Why not?” Dean snaps. “I never should have come here in the first place. I—“

Whatever reasons he was going to offer are silenced quite soundly as Cas crashes into him, a kiss just as passionate as the one they shared outside but fueled by some much more volatile emotions stealing the words right out of him. Dean tries to shrug out of the embrace at first, but after just a few second, he’s relaxing into Cas’s touch. Cas kisses until they’re both breathless before letting go his death-grip on Dean’s arms and allowing him to step back. For a moment, Castiel’s mind is taken back to the island and to the first time he kissed Dean like that, so intense it stole the will to argue right out of his mouth. It’s lucky he’s got that trick up his sleeve. It’s perfect in situations like this, when Dean won’t listen to reason.

“That’s the last I wanna hear of anything like that,” Cas says, his tone measured. “You,” he announces firmly, stabbing a finger bluntly against Dean’s chest, “are clever. You are brilliant, as a matter of fact, and the minor detail that is your lack of a post-secondary education doesn’t diminish you in the slightest. Education isn’t intelligence.”

Dean looks like he wants to say something in challenge, but whatever he sees on Cas’s face shuts him right up. He opens his mouth to try again, but no words come out. He settles for averting his eyes, but Cas doesn’t step out of his space. He can’t bring himself to move away while Dean’s still so clearly upset about this.

“You know that I fell in love with you before I knew anything about you, right?” Cas’s hand finds its way to Dean’s jaw, gentle fingers turning his face so their eyes meet again. Dean moves slowly, and he doesn’t respond, but at least he doesn’t try to shy away again. “I fell in love with your heart, and your spirit. I fell in love with the man at the very core of you. That man, he doesn’t need an Ivy League education. He’s worth so much more than some piece of paper.”

“Yeah, you say that now,” Dean grimaces, “but my shining personality ain’t much. Gonna get old some day, and then I’m still just that idiot who never finished school.”

“Goddamnit,” Cas snaps. “Are you naturally this stubborn, or do you work at it?” He shakes himself off, muttering softly, then kisses Dean again just to make sure he knows the frustration is still out of fondness. “Do you think I’m only as good as those slips of paper on the wall?”

“No,” Dean argues. “But I—“

Cas cuts him off. “But nothing. If you’re no good without them, then I’m only good because I have them. Is that what you think?”

“No!” Dean insists. “You know I don’t!”

“Well you can’t have it both ways.”

Dean sighs, seemingly defeated. This time, when their lips meet, it’s soft and sweet, and Dean initiates it. The kiss seems like acceptance, like a promise to love himself as well as Cas does. It doesn’t fix anything; Castiel can tell this is going to be a conversation they have again and again. Somewhere along the way Dean’s been taught to sell himself short because he doesn’t fit someone else’s image of success. Maybe it came from his own mind, and he’s just never had anyone there to help him see how wrong it is. Either way, Castiel vows not to let it gain any more grip on him. Dean’s value has never been a question in his eyes. He only needs to teach Dean how to see it the same way.

“Can I show you the rest of the house?” Cas asks quietly.

“Just show me the bedroom,” Dean replies, his cocky façade back intact. “Pretty sure that’s where we’re gonna spend most of our time anyway.”

~*~

Initially, it was Cas’s intention to keep Dean completely to himself for the entire visit. He definitely didn’t plan to introduce him to Gabriel. Certainly a little gratitude was in order, being that it was Gabriel’s meddling that reconnected them in the first place, but Gabriel is one of those family members that require a bit of preparation in order to meet. He’s thinking that preparation might span several long months and culminate in the briefest meetings. Perhaps a wave across the street as they head in separate directions.

But the thing is, Gabriel is persistent. Okay, that’s an understatement. Gabriel is the bulldog of the family. Once he gets his teeth in something, he sinks them in and refuses to let go. So the second he got wind of Castiel’s plans to have Dean come to town for the week, he did what he always did. He pushed.

At first, it was subtle. He asked about their plans for the trip, casually mentioned new restaurants he’d visited recently that he thought Castiel might like to take a date to. But that eventually gave way to not so subtle jabs and direct requests to meet the man, and when Cas still refused, Gabriel pulled out the big guns.

“You know baby brother, I put in a not insignificant amount of work tracking down this piece of ass for you. I think the least you could do is let me tag along for lunch at some point during the time you’ve got him in town. You do plan on leaving the house at some point, right? It’s not just going to be two whole weeks of nakedness is it?”

“Gabriel!” Castiel had snapped. “He’s not a piece of ass!”

“Not _just_ a piece of ass,” Gabriel corrected. “My point about lunch stands regardless. So are you going to invite me, or do I have to exercise my considerable talents to find out where you’re going to be and when, and make my own invite?”

And as much as he wanted to fight it, Castiel had to admit that Gabriel wasn’t asking anything unreasonable. He _did_ find Dean when Cas had basically given up.  One awkward lunch full of rolled eyes and gritted teeth followed by an afternoon of apologizing for Gabe’s behavior is a small price to pay for having Dean back in his life.

So on Monday, after a truly breathtaking night of sex and reconnection, he coaxes Dean out of the house with the promise of bacon and a few advance apologies on Gabriel’s behalf. He’s already in the driver’s seat of his (totally practical) little car when he looks back and finds Dean just standing there, staring at him with the most disgusted, perplexed look on his face.

“Is that a _Smart Car?”_ Dean exclaims.

“It’s practical! They’re incredibly fuel efficient.” Cas tells him, exasperated. Dean just sneers at the car like it’s personally offended him. “You didn’t see it when you got here yesterday?”

“I was too focused on you. Didn’t really notice the car.”

“That’s cute,” Cas tells him, only a little bit of mockery in his tone. “You’re not getting in this car, are you?”

“Not on your fucking life,” Dean confirms.

“Not even if I promise to make it up to you when we get home?”

Dean leans a hip against the fender of his own car. “I’m listening.”

“It involves my tongue,” Cas offers. “And orgasms. Plural.”

“And you’re telling me that if I don’t get in the passenger seat of that miniature abomination, that offer’s off the table?”

“It could be. Might still happen. I make no promises. But if you get in the car so we can go to lunch, I guarantee it’ll be worth your while.” Castiel shuts the driver’s side door, and though he’s pretending not to watch, he can see Dean throw up his hands, abandon his post, and stride over to the passenger side of the car.

“You’re a menace,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling.

Gabriel is already at the restaurant when they get there, pouring the charm on with a blonde waitress who, admittedly, seems to be buying into it hook, line, and sinker.  As Dean and Cas approach she giggles at something Gabriel says, turning around only when Gabriel stands to greet the new arrivals.

“Cas!” He exclaims, like he wasn’t actually sure Cas was going to show up. “How you doin’ little brother?” He draws Castiel into a rather awkward hug, one that Castiel returns somewhat reluctantly.

“I’m fine Gabriel.” He steps back to gesture to the man standing beside him, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. “This is Dean.”

“Dean Winchester,” Gabriel intones in a low voice. “In the flesh.”

“Well yeah,” Dean retorts. “How else would I be?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel says with a shrug. “In the flesh but like, elsewhere?”

“Hear I got you to thank for Cas showing up and surprising me,” Dean says ignoring Gabriel’s comment.

“I suppose you do. Can’t have my baby brother pining away for some jerk halfway across the country when I got the power to do something about it! Besides. I like a challenge, and you were a difficult man to track down.” Gabriel claps his hands suddenly, rubbing them together excitedly. “Come on, sit down. Let’s order lunch.”

And awkward though it is, everyone survives. Gabriel doesn’t make too many off-color jokes, Cas manages to steer the conversation mostly away from embarrassing childhood stories, and it’s surprisingly pleasant. Well, most of it.

Right as they’re about to leave, after the check is paid and they’re making their way towards the door, Gabriel stops Dean with a hand on his arm. He plays it casual, like he’s about to make an offhand comment, but Castiel knows that look. That’s Gabriel’s game face.

“You know, Dean,” Gabriel offers conversationally. “Castiel may only be my half-brother, but I’ve spent a lot of time looking out for him over the years. Too smart for his own good, if you ask me, but it’s all those book smarts. Lacks a certain…” he waves his hand in the air as if willing the word to come to him, “…finesse. And I like you, Dean, really I do. You seem like a great guy. But if you hurt my soft-hearted little brother, all those resources I put into tracking you down from just a first name and the knowledge that your brother got married at a certain hotel, I will apply them towards making sure the rest of your life is a hell on earth. And I won’t lose a wink of sleep over it, ‘cause I’ll know deep down you brought it on yourself. Capice?”

Over three decades as Gabriel’s younger brother have ensured that Cas is no stranger to mortification.  So it says something that in this moment, Castiel finds himself wishing that the earth beneath him would open wide its gaping maw and swallow him whole, because the pain of being crushed under a city’s worth of dirt and concrete would seem a pleasant dream beside the torture of watching his brother pull a bit that absurd. The implication that Castiel needs that kind of defending is bad enough. Knowing Gabriel would actually follow through on it is just a whole new level of mortifying.

“Gabriel,” Cas warns, but Dean’s already responding.

“That’s cute,” Dean says with a laugh. “That you think Cas needs anyone to look out for him. You know the first time we met he saved my life, right? Linebacker-tackled me right out of the path of a murderous beach umbrella. Seriously though, you can stow the righteous defender bit. Trust me. We find ourselves in a scenario where I bring that kind of hurt down on Castiel,” he squeezes Cas’s hand, and this is the first time that Cas realizes Dean’s even reached out to hold his hand, “there won’t be a single thing you or your _considerable resources_ can throw at me that’ll make me feel worse than I already would for hurting him. But hey, if it’ll make you sleep better at night, go ahead and threaten me. See you later, Gabriel.”

They’re halfway to the car before Castiel’s brain catches up and registers that they’re moving, and then his first action is to swing Dean around, backing him up against the passenger side door of some random vehicle as their mouths crash together. It’s fortunate the restaurant isn’t too far from Castiel’s house. He’s not sure how long he’s going to be able to keep his hands to himself.

~*~

On Castiel’s birthday, Dean wakes him up with a blowjob that rivals the best he’s ever received, and considering the kind of tricks Dean has gotten up to with that mouth of his before, that’s saying something. In the low rumble that is his voice before the first cup of coffee, Castiel groans praise for his skills, his mouth, his tongue, his hands, carding fingers through Dean’s sandy locks and clutching at the sheets as his cockhead nudges the back of Dean’s throat. And it would totally be one of the best birthdays he’s got on record even if it ended there, but no, Dean has plans, apparently. When he’s sure Cas is sufficiently riled up, he crawls out from under the blankets, stripping out of his boxers (Cas has no idea why he ever bothered putting them back on after they fucked last night, but whatever) and perching just out of Cas’s reach. Then, strong fingers creep between his legs as he begins to work himself open, twisting and teasing and probing and moaning until he can fit two fingers in comfortably. All the while, Cas watches happily, taking plenty of enjoyment out of the beautiful sight of Dean’s fingers disappearing into his ass.

When Dean decides he’s ready, he climbs into Cas’s lap, straddling his sturdy thighs with those beautiful bow legs and lowering himself down onto Cas’s cock with such incremental slowness that time seems to stand still. Dean could take more and they both know it, but they both also know that Cas loves to drag it out, to feel every inch of himself sliding into Dean’s hole and filling him up until all he can feel is _Cas_. Then finally, after what seems like eons, Dean bottoms out, leaning forward to capture Cas’s lips in a sweet and filthy kiss. He braces himself on the headboard and starts to rock his body up and down, a sultry grind that’s anything but lazy.  Castiel loves the way he looks as he swivels his hips, the way his mouth hangs open in ecstasy when Cas’s cock brushes against that sweet spot. They’re both coming before too long, Dean groaning loudly as he shoots all over his own belly and Castiel’s chest, Cas slamming his hips upward into Dean with a shout.

“Happy birthday,” Dean murmurs. “If I get up and make you breakfast now, there might be enough time for another round before we have to get on the road.”

Castiel is the luckiest man on earth.

They do, as it turns out, have time for another round before they get on the road. And since it’s Castiel’s birthday, Dean tells him he can have it however he wants, which is how he ends up on his back, Dean between his thighs, fucking him hard and fast and deep. He’ll regret it the entire car ride up state, of course, but it’s hard to think about that with Dean’s dick in his ass.

~*~

Jimmy is buried in a cemetery about two hours north of Castiel’s home. He knows the route by heart now, every turn between his driveway and the parking lot closest to the simple headstone that marks his twin’s final resting place.

“I come here every year on our birthday,” Castiel explains in the car. “It’s the best way I can think of to keep his memory alive. We were very close when we were children. Jimmy was my brother, but he was my best friend, too.”  He pauses, losing himself in his thoughts for a moment before he goes on.  “He was so much bolder than me. Sometimes I wondered which one of us was the evil twin. There’s always an evil one, right?”

Dean laughs softly. It’s obvious to Castiel that he feels weird laughing at the subject of his boyfriend’s dead twin, but it _was_ meant to be a joking matter. “Well that’s easy. Which one of you had the mustache?”

“Neither,” Castiel informs him wryly. “He was five when we lost him.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says quickly, wincing.

“Don’t be,” Cas assures him. “I started the joke. It was a long time ago. We were…our parents had a cabin by one of the finger lakes. We used to go there sometimes when we were young. Anna was supposed to teach us how to swim that year but we hadn’t actually gotten around to it yet. And I don’t really remember if I fell off the dock or if I was just so sure I could figure out how to swim that I jumped. It’s all kind of a blur after that. But I do remember Jimmy grabbing me, kicking and flailing in the water as he tried to get someone’s attention. We were both underwater for so long. I was useless, dead weight; it was Jimmy’s splashing that caught my parent’s attention back up the beach, and it’s because of him I didn’t drown that day. He wasn’t so lucky.”

“Jesus, Cas. That’s…you know that’s not your fault right?” Dean reaches out a hand to rest on Cas’s knee, a comforting touch that soothes the raw edges of the memory just a little.

“Yeah, I do,” Cas agrees. He hopes he sounds like he believes it.

The car is silent for a few minutes after that, only the quiet hum of the engine intruding on their thoughts. Dean hadn’t fought against riding in the abomination today, probably just because it’s Castiel’s birthday. Birthdays are a sacred thing, as Dean mentioned the previous night. Carte blanche. The birthday-haver is the boss of everyone and everything. Apparently that even applied to silly prejudices about methods of propulsion.

“If you ask my parents,” Castiel announces a few miles down the road, finally breaking the silence, “I’m the evil twin.”

Dean laughs, this time sharply and without shame. “Right. You. Evil.”

“Well it’s not like Jimmy really had a chance to prove otherwise, but they’re convinced that _James_ would have been the perfect child they never had. Not the deceitful trickster like Gabriel, never the rebel like Anna, and certainly not gay like me.”

“Your parents are some grade A assholes, you know that?”

“Tell me about it,” Cas replies with a snort. “We’re here.”

There are relatively few vehicles in the parking lot of the cemetery, and their owners are nowhere to be found. Castiel pulls a single sunflower out of the back seat of the car, its stem wrapped in wet paper towel to keep it fresh for the drive, and takes Dean’s offered hand as they walk away from the parking lot. Castiel doesn’t speak as they pick their way down the path that runs between the north and south branches of the yard, and Dean seems to pick up on the change in mood. He holds Cas’s hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze from time to time, but he doesn’t offer any words to break the silence. Finally, when Castiel comes to a stop in the path, he lets go of Dean’s hand and strides out between the rows of graves. Dean stays on the path, watching quietly as Castiel finds the grave he seeks.

“Hey,” Castiel offers in greeting, crouching down to lay the single stem on his brother’s grave. “We’re thirty-six today. It’s been a good year. Anna got married. You should have seen her. She’s grown up into such a stunning woman. She’s so bright and lively and kind. I don’t think you would like her husband as much though. He’s a good person and he cares for her, don’t get me wrong. I just think he’s a bit too uptight for your tastes. You always were more fun than me.

“We went to an island resort for her wedding. A destination wedding on the beach. Anna was going to walk down the aisle in bare feet but there was a storm. We were forced inside, but you know Anna, she went barefoot anyway! Walked down the carpet with her pretty little toes poking out from under her dress, no one to give her away just like she always said. You should have seen the look on mother’s face. You know the look. It was so perfectly Anna though. So perfectly Anna. She’s so happy.

“And I met someone, Jimmy. At the wedding, if you can believe it. There was a hurricane, and we couldn’t leave the island for several days after the ceremony and wouldn’t you know it, I went and fell in love. I really wish you could have met him. You’d like Dean. I don’t see how you couldn’t. He’s amazing.

“I’ll try to come visit you more this year. Once a year on our birthday isn’t enough. I miss you, Jimmy. I hope you know that. I’ll come back soon.” Castiel knows that Jimmy can’t hear him. Jimmy is dead, and he has been for over three decades. But it makes him feel closer. It takes the sting out of knowing he’ll never see his twin again.

When he stands up, Dean is standing immobile in the same spot he was when Castiel broke away from his side. He hasn’t moved a muscle. He smiles softly when Castiel turns toward him, letting Cas come to his side with a quiet air of peace around him. Castiel starts to walk back towards the car, but Dean stops him.

“Hang on a second,” he says, then steps off the path towards Jimmy’s grave. It’s not until that moment that Castiel sees the single sunflower in Dean’s hand, a twin to the one he laid down only moments ago. Even with the gentle breeze that flows between the gravestones, the cemetery has an unreal kind of stillness to it, and it means that even though Dean is several feet away, Cas can hear every word that springs from his lips.

“Hey Jimmy,” Dean begins, his voice shaky and unsure. “We never met, but my name’s Dean. I’m the idiot your brother fell in love with. I didn’t meet your sister at the wedding, but my brother got married there the same weekend. I met Gabriel though. He’s something else hey?

“Cas tells me you saved his life. That’s…I mean, I’m really glad you did. I’m always looking out for my kid brother even though he’s all grown up and married and being a big-shot lawyer now. It seems like Cas has had it pretty rough with your family, so it’s good to know he had someone as great as you around when he was little. And you know what, Cas saved my life too, so in a way, I guess you saved two lives that day. Pretty cool, hey? Anyway, happy birthday, Jimmy. I wish I’d gotten to meet you. I know you were—are—really important to Cas, and I’d love to meet anyone who matters to him that much.”

Castiel rarely cries when he comes to visit Jimmy. The wounds are all old ones, healed over by time as much as anything else, and it’s been a long time since anything tugged at them sharply enough to let the tears flow. But when Dean stands up from his heart to heart with Cas’s dead brother, there’s tears in Cas’s eyes and a few more stray ones trickling down his cheeks. He throws his arms around Dean when he comes closer, drawing him into an embrace so tight he’s surprised not to hear ribs crack, and they stay that way for so long, Castiel loses track of time. It’s not important. This moment is too beautiful to walk away from.

When Castiel finally lets go, Dean just smiles gently and slings an arm around his shoulder.

“Come on Cas,” he says fondly. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Homophobia, Dean Winchester's staggeringly low self esteem, past character death, Bottom!Dean, Bottom!Cas


	17. November 9 – 14, 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is definitely not getting sick. He absolutely cannot be getting sick, not when Cas is finally coming in this weekend.
> 
> Okay, maybe he's getting sick. Clearly, what he needs is a doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

“I’b dot getting sick.”

“Son, y’can’t breathe through your nose, you’re wearin’ four layers and still shivering, you’re tryin’ so hard not to cough that your face is turning red, and you’re literally swayin’ on your feet. Getcher ass out of here before you decapitate yourself on a lift.”

“I’b fide, Bobby. It’s just allergies,” Dean insists, leaning against the restoration behind him to mask the fact that he is indeed feeling more than a little unsteady on his feet.

“Uh huh. And I’m the Queen of Sheba. Boy, who d’ya think you’re talkin’ to? Only thing you’re allergic to is cats, and ain’t none of those in here.”

“Fide, maybe I’ve got a little cold, but it’s dot that serious, and I’b already taking Friday, Monday and Tuesday off. I gotta fidish this restoration.”

“You’re so stuffed up you can’t even pronounce the letter ‘n,’ ya idjit. You’re not welcome here til next Wednesday, and I don’t want to hear another word about—ah. There we are,” Bobby says, raising a hand in greeting as the bell on the shop door tinkles to admit someone. That’s weird, the shop’s been closed for an hour, and—oh, shit.

Dean groans openly as he turns to the door and spots Jess, Sam closely following on her heels.

“Bobby, you _didn’t,”_ he accuses, swiveling to fix a glare on the old man.

“Desperate times,” Bobby shrugs, totally unabashed. “You forced my hand, boy. If you’d just gone home the first time I told you to, seven hours ago, it wouldn’t have come to this.”

“Dean Michael Winchester, I _knew_ something was wrong when you called to cancel dinner last night,” the kind but no-nonsense voice of his sister-in-law floats across the shop to Dean, who straightens up to ready himself for a battle, then slumps against the hood again as the world tips a little on its axis. He can’t remember the last time he had a fever, but he’s pretty sure that’s what’s driving the weirdly surreal haze he’s seeing the world through.

“I’b fide!” He insists, as Bobby’s hands reach out to steady him. “You cad all quid your fussing.”

“Don’t you even start with me,” Jess warns as she reaches his side, extending her arm to press the back of her hand against his cheek, then his forehead. “Dean!” She exclaims, eyes widening, “you’re burning up. You’ve gotta be running at least a temperature of 101°.” Lips pursing, she turns to Sam and Bobby, opting to address them rather than listening to Dean’s renewed spluttering protests. “This is no cold. Mr. I-Don’t-Need-a-Flu-Shot-I-Never-Get-Sick has the flu. I’m gonna call in Tamiflu for him. Sam, you take him home in the Impala, I’ll go pick up the prescription and a few other supplies.”

“Dod’t I get a say id—“

_“NO,”_ the single word is practically surround sound as three separate voices bark it in unison. Dean scowls but subsides, recognizing when he’s outnumbered. If it were just Sam and Bobby, he’d have a fighting chance, but Jess is a force of nature.

~*~

An hour later finds Dean, now swathed in flannel pajamas he didn’t even think he still owned, tucked into his bed and buried under what has to be every blanket in the house. He’s not entirely sure how he got here except that everything seemed to happen very fast, regardless of how loudly he protested that none of this was necessary.

The bedside table next to him is stocked with cough drops, a thermometer (as it turns out, his temperature was actually 102.1° by the time Jess got here with the thing), Nyquil and Tamiflu (both of which Jess bullied him into taking), Puffs Plus, a steaming mug of herbal tea, and a glass of ice water. The sister-in-law in question is seated on the bed beside him while Sam stands in the doorway, not-so-subtly blocking Dean’s potential avenue of escape. Not that he’d have much of a shot of getting that far, honestly. His limbs feel like they weigh a ton and the world remains a little unsteady when Dean tries to walk. Jess insists that’s the fever, which should start dropping once the Nyquil kicks in.

“I know you’re upset,” Jess tells him, smoothing a cool, damp washcloth over his forehead. Dean sort of wants to shrug it off, just on principle, but it actually feels pretty amazing so he lets it slide. For now. “But you’re just gonna make things worse by trying to insist that you’re not actually sick. When you don’t take care of yourself while you’re ill, you end up a lot sicker. How many times have we talked about this?”

“Way too mady,” Dean sulks, “and how fast does that Tamiflu stuff work adyway? I’ve gotta pick Cas up at the airport Friday morning, and—“

“Not that fast,” Jess tells him, shaking her head immediately. “You’ll be in no shape for a marathon weekend of sex, either. Honestly, you may be better off rescheduling for when you’re feeling better.”

Dean scowls again, but not at Jess. He’s not really mad at her. He’s mad at himself, at his own stupid body, which has apparently decided that two days before he was going to see Cas for the first time in over a month and a half is the ideal time for Dean to get his first bout of flu since he was six.

“Goddabbit,” he curses, ignoring the way Sam’s lips twitch at how ridiculous his stuffy nose makes everything sound. “Fide, where’s by stupid phode?”

Yeah, he’s throwing a tiny bit of a temper tantrum, but he’s been looking forward to this visit since…well, pretty much since he pulled out of Cas’s driveway back in September, and now it’s the middle of November. Dean’s been counting down the days (no, literally, he’s been marking them off on his calendar) till he gets to see Cas again, and now a fucking microorganism has gone and ruined everything.

Jess roots around on the bedside table and comes up with Dean’s phone, which she hands to him. “Better make it quick,” she suggests, sounding sympathetic, “that Nyquil’s gonna kick in any minute now, and you’ll be even less coherent than you already are.”

“I’b totally coherent,” he protests pointlessly, since they all know it’s not true. Jess just wipes his forehead again as Dean fumbles with his phone until he can see it’s calling Cas, then puts it to his ear. She takes that as her cue to withdraw, although she doesn’t go far, just settles herself in the armchair in the corner of the room.

The phone is picked up on the second ring, and the familiar gravelly voice floats out, warm and welcome and way the fuck too far away. “Hey, baby,” Cas says, “I was wondering when I’d hear from you. Everything okay? Your texts were a little weird today.”

“Everything’s fide, I’b just—“ Jess narrows her eyes at him and Dean sighs. “Okay, I’b dot fide. By overbearing sister-in-law says I’ve got the flu.”

“You sound like hell,” Cas observes, sounding impressed, then adds, “This is why flu shots are—“

“Oh, dot you too,” Dean groans, “I’ve already gotten that lecture from Jess.”

“I rather imagine you have,” Cas agrees, slightly amused, before his voice softens. “You’re letting them take care of you, aren’t you? I know how you feel about being coddled, but—“

“I’b dot being coddled, I’b being bullied,” Dean grouses, “but yes, I’ve been force-fed bedicine, threatened with a whole bunch of shit if I get out of bed, and I’b surrounded by piles of tissues and cough drops and therbobeters.”

“It’s a difficult life,” Cas agrees gravely, and Dean sighs.

“Babe, I dod’t think it bakes ady sense for you to come out here when I’d probably end up sleeping through your visit, and I’b definitely dot in shape for our usual activities. Cad we reschedule?” He’s not excited about asking for this—he was really hoping to be able to power through—but Jess is right, he feels fucking terrible, and he can’t ask Cas to fly 1300 miles just to watch Dean produce impressive quantities and colors of mucous.

“Dean,” Cas says, “You know I don’t come see you purely for the sex, right? I have no problem with flying in to keep you company and look after you while you’re not feeling well. I can—”

“Dod’t be ridiculous,” Dean interrupts, “I’b okay. Really. It’s only six weeks till your next visit, right? And you’ll be here for almost two weeks.” Since Cas has no family he actually wants to spend the holidays with and the entire university is closed between Christmas and New Years’, it only made sense for him to come spend the holidays in Sioux Falls with Dean.

“True,” Cas says, but he doesn’t sound convinced, “but—“

“It’s okay,” Dean says, “I’b—“ he loses the train of thought as a wave of sleepiness crests over him. Well, hello there, Nyquil. He struggles to push back against it long enough to finish the conversation. “I’b dot gonna—I’b really—“ Okay, this is not working. “Shit, I think the Nyquil might be—“ What? The Nyquil might be…dammit, he can’t remember the right words. And his eyes really don’t want to stay open.

“You should sleep,” Cas says gently. “We can talk later. I love you.”

“Love you too,” Dean murmurs, and a second later the phone is plucked from his hand by Jess. He’s not sure whether he wants to thank her for taking care of it or yell at her for prematurely terminating his conversation, but before he can decide, he’s out.

~*~

The next day and a half are a haze of Nyquil comas, Tamiflu, and bouts of bone-shaking chills and skin-boiling sweats. He’s forced to give in and let Jess and Sam look after him whenever they’re not at work, if only because he practically gave himself a concussion on the edge of the bathroom sink that first night when he overestimated his fever-and-Nyquil-addled balance.

Sometime around four in the morning on Friday, Dean decides that Jess must have been mistaken. There’s no way this is the flu. It’s gotta be something like the bubonic plague, because Dean is clearly dying. Fuck the stoicism, he feels like absolute hell, the only thing he wants is the one thing he can’t have, and it’s all his own fault. Cas was totally willing to still come out—and he would’ve been arriving in about five hours if Dean hadn’t insisted he cancel. All Dean wants to do is curl up in his boyfriend’s arms, whine a lot, and maybe even let Cas actually coddle him. For some reason it feels like that would be acceptable in a way other coddling is not.

After coughing so hard it actually hurts his chest and using the last of the box of tissues on his bedside table (the second one he’s put away in as many days, impressively), Dean takes a shot of Nyquil straight from the bottle. Fuck it, if he has to be boyfriendless and miserable, at least he can sleep through it.

~*~

Around 8:30, Jess pokes her head in (she’s got no surgeries today, or so she informs Dean) and drags him out of bed, bullying him into a tepid bath. She at least preserves his modesty by letting him keep his boxers on until she leaves the bathroom, then tells him she’s going to switch out his sweat-soaked sheets for a fresh set.

As it turns out, the bath helps an awful lot, and while he still doesn’t feel anywhere near normal, by the time he climbs out (carefully, with Jess waiting just outside the bathroom door, and only because Dean threatened to drown her in the bathtub if she came in to help him out of the tub), he’s as clear-headed as he’s been in the last two days.

He puts on the clean pajamas Jess has laid out for him, but when he goes to climb back into the clean sheets, she insists on dragging him out into the living room. It’s a little weird, since she’s been insisting that he stay in bed for the better part of two days, but she’s determined to feed him and after the Campbell’s Soup Incident of yesterday afternoon (after which the sheets had to be washed and the mattress pad completely replaced), she won’t do it in bed.

So Dean ends up eating an incredibly bland soft-boiled egg and slice of toast under her watchful eye, while bundled up in a blanket on the couch. He feels a little better after eating, despite how uninteresting the food was, and a huge glass of orange juice (even though it stings his tender throat a little) also perks him up slightly. He still feels like he got run over by a truck, but maybe a slightly smaller truck.

“I thought Sam didn’t have to work today,” he says thirty minutes later, dimly remembering a conversation that happened in his bedroom last night while he was half asleep. He’s still on the couch, watching a Dr. Sexy rerun that Jess put on for him while she putters around, needlessly straightening up. He’s told her a thousand times she doesn’t need to clean his house, but she’s like the Energizer bunny, incapable of not _doing_ something.

“He’s running errands,” Jess says, “he’ll be along later. Well,” she adds, checking her watch, “maybe pretty soon, actually.”

As it turns out, there’s no sign of Sam for at least another hour, and when the door clicks open, Dean doesn’t even glance over his shoulder.

“Hey, you’re up!” Sam says, “Good to see you out of bed. I brought you a present.”

“I swear to God, Sam, if you try to shove any more Pedialyte down my throat—“

“I have no intention of feeding you Pedialyte,” a voice that most definitely does not belong to Sam rings out, “but I did insist that your brother stop off so that I could pick up ingredients for homemade chicken soup, and I will absolutely require you to eat several helpings of that.”

“Cas!” Dean exclaims, throwing off the blanket and leaping to his feet. He’s still not totally steady, but a lot better than he was before. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“And miss the opportunity to join forces with your sister-in-law to cluck over you worriedly? Never,” Cas says, hurrying around the couch and wrapping Dean in a strong, steady embrace. Dean melts into him, burying his face in the crook of Cas’s neck, so happy he can actually feel tears prickling his eyes. He hadn’t fully realized until right now just how miserable he was over the thought of not getting to see Cas for another month or two.

“On that note,” Sam speaks up finally, “Jess and I are gonna get our shit together and get out of your hair. You’re clearly in good hands.”

“Cas, Dean’s next Tamiflu dose is due tonight around 8, and don’t forget to take your prophylactic course either. You guys picked up the prescription?” Jess demands. Dean presumes she’s talking to Sam, since he still hasn’t emerged from Cas’s neck and isn’t entirely sure he ever plans to.

“Yes, Sam brought me to the pharmacy on the way home. Thank you for calling it in for me,” Cas tells Jess, one of his hands rubbing soothing circles on Dean’s back.

“You’re very welcome,” Jess tells Cas, a smile in her voice. “I’m glad you’re here. However. Absolutely _no strenuous activity._ In fact, no _mild_ activity until his temperature has been normal for at least a full day.”

She doesn’t need to specify what she means by ‘no strenuous activity,’ and that actually convinces Dean to emerge from his Cas cave long enough to scowl at her. “Hey, that’s not fair. I feel a lot better. My temperature has dropped and I can even pronounce ‘n’ and ‘m’ again!”

“You can pronounce ‘m’ and ‘n’ because I gave you Sudafed an hour ago,” Jess tells him, unimpressed, “and it may be lower but you’re still running a fever. Cas, I’m trusting you, since Dean completely lacks a sense of self-preservation.”

“I assure you that I have no intention of allowing him to engage in any activities that will tax him,” Cas says firmly as Dean splutters and huffs, “until and unless he is clearly a good deal healthier than he is now.”

“Don’t I get a say in—“

_“No.”_ Once again, surround sound, only this time Cas’s voice has replaced Bobby’s in the triumvirate.

“I don’t like any of you,” Dean grumbles, and Cas laughs quietly, one hand sliding up to card through Dean’s hair, lightly scratching the back of his scalp. Dean goes pliant in his arms.

“Yes, you do,” Cas says, then speaks over Dean’s shoulder to Sam and Jess. “I assure you, Dean will be the perfect patient. Leverage is not something I lack.”

“Pretty sure I don’t need to hear any more,” Sam says hastily, and Cas chuckles.

“Thank you both for taking such good care of my boy when I could not be here,” he tells Sam and Jess quietly. Warmth sweeps through Dean at those two little words: _my boy._ He is Cas’s and Cas is his and really, what does dying of the bubonic plague matter if he gets to do it with Cas holding him?

“It’s our job,” Sam says easily, “even if Dean really likes to make it difficult.”

Dean pops his head up long enough to speak to Jess as she and Sam gather their things and head for the door. “Don’t think I don’t know that you’re behind this,” he tells her, tipping his head into Cas to make it clear which ‘this’ he’s referring to.

“Guilty as charged,” she says, smiling. “I thought you could use a little pick-me-up and some good company after all.”

“Thanks, Jess,” he says quietly, wanting to do a better job of explaining how much it means to have Cas here, but too sick and emotionally constipated (okay, fine, yeah he kind of is) to find the words.

“My pleasure. Feel better and call if you guys need anything.”

“We will,” Cas confirms, and a moment later the door closes, leaving them alone. Dean tucks his head back into the crook of Cas’s neck and sighs happily as Cas’s arms tighten around him. They stand there a few moments, swaying slightly, and Dean’s not quite sure whether Cas is rocking him back and forth like a baby or if he’s still doing the fever-sway.

“Come on,” Cas says after a bit, “your legs are shaking. Couch or bed?”

“Don’t care,” Dean says, “as long as you come too.”

~*~

Cas does indeed come too, although when Dean tries to tempt him into doing another kind of ‘coming,’ he gets shut down so fast it makes his head spin harder than the fever does.

“But I totally feel better,” he whines, snuggling a little closer in and nuzzling his nose against the side of Cas’s face.

“I am certain that you do, but ‘better’ is a far cry from healthy,” Cas tells him sternly, “and the next time your hand ventures below my waist, I’m going to tie it to the bed. In a non-sexy way,” he adds after a moment, realizing his folly.

Dean grumbles so much that eventually Cas consents to strike him a bargain, probably just to shut him up.

“Very well,” he says, the hint of amusement in his eyes belying his otherwise stern face, “if you behave yourself and are a model patient, once your fever breaks I promise to tie you to the bed. And _not_ in a non-sexy way. I feel confident,” he adds thoughtfully, “that will fulfill the terms of my agreement with your sister-in-law, since I plan on doing all the hard work.”

“What if the fever hasn’t broken by the time you leave?” Dean pouts, giving Cas his very best Puss-in-Boots-in-Shrek eyes.

“You became symptomatic about forty-eight hours ago,” Cas tells him, “and on average influenza fevers tend to last only two to three days. I’m here for the next five days. Have heart, math is on our side.”

“You’re making fun of me,” Dean accuses, willingly letting Cas draw him in a little tighter.

“Only a little,” Cas admits, one of his hands starting up again with that amazing head-scratching thing he’s so good at, “and only because you’re so adorable when you pout.”

“I don’t pout,” Dean pouts, “and ‘m not adorable.”

“Mmmm, that’s my mistake,” Cas tells him, amused, and Dean lets it slide because Cas’s warmth is the first thing that seems to actually be making the fever-chills a little better, and his chest may not be soft but it’s Dean’s favorite pillow, and suddenly his eyes are impossibly heavy. As if via some bizarre sixth sense, Cas seems to know immediately that Dean is drifting off. “Shhhh, now. The more rest you get, the faster you will be in shape for more stimulating activities.”

Dean can’t remember the last time he was so motivated to take a nap.

~*~

He awakens, disoriented, hours later. The sheets and blanket, wrapped warmly around him, are drenched in sweat (ugh, _again?),_ which is unpleasant but not surprising. What is surprising is that he’s alone.

The fever-haze keeps things unclear a bit longer, while Dean remembers telling Cas not to come, then tries to reconcile why he can still smell Cas all around him, overlying the faintly sour scent of fever sweats. Then he remembers that Cas _is_ here, just not… _here_ here. Which raises the question of exactly where he is.

Dean drags himself out of bed, taking it slow and using the bedside table for balance while he waits for his head to stop spinning. His first stop is his bathroom to take a piss, and when he’s done he heads for the door of his room, which is closed.

The moment he pulls it open, Dean is assaulted by the most incredible scent. It smells like comfort and warmth and safety. It smells like love. It maybe smells a little bit like the kitchen in Lawrence might have smelled at some point back before the fire. The scent is rich, broth and subtle spices, and Dean dimly remembers Cas saying something about chicken soup.

He follows the scent down the hall to the kitchen, where he finds Cas at the sink washing dishes while a large pot simmers on the stove. It takes Dean a second to see that Cas is wearing Dean’s ridiculous apron, a gift from Garth that is emblazoned with a giant red set of lips on the front, overlaid by the words “Kiss the Cook.”

Well, hell, if that isn’t an invitation, Dean doesn’t know what is.

He pads across the kitchen floor in his bare feet, sliding his arms around Cas’s waist and brushing his lips across the back of his neck. “That smells incredible,” he murmurs happily, “and here I thought you couldn’t cook.”

“I can’t,” Cas says, turning his head to press a kiss against the side of Dean’s head, “this is one of very few exceptions. My childhood best friend Aaron was Jewish, and his mother made the best chicken soup I have ever tasted. After choking down my own mother’s truly appalling attempts at it one too many times, I begged Mrs. Bass to teach me. She did, and the chicken soup making in my family became my sole purview from then on.”

“Oh my God, does that mean you can make matzah balls?” Dean demands, not relinquishing his hold as Cas goes back to washing dishes, despite having acquired a Dean-shaped barnacle.

“Guilty as charged,” Cas tells him, “although I went with noodles this time. Chicken noodle soup seems more appropriate for illness. But I promise to make you matzah balls soon. Maybe that’ll be my addition to Christmas dinner. There seems a certain poeticism about it.”

“Our uncle Bobby’s best friend Rufus is Jewish,” Dean relates, “and he makes some killer matzah balls, but he usually goes to his daughter’s place in California for Passover these days, so we’re screwed on that front. I totally support matzah balls for Christmas dinner.” Having given his stamp of approval, Dean returns to his previous task, brushing light kisses across the nape of Cas’s neck.

“You are dangerously close to violating the spirit of our agreement,” Cas warns, and just the sternness in his voice is enough to make Dean’s cock twitch a little in his unpleasantly damp sweatpants.

“You started it,” Dean tells him firmly, and Cas pauses, turning his head over his shoulder to quirk an inquiring brow at Dean.

“I hardly see how making chicken soup qualifies as ‘starting it.’”

“Look at the apron,” Dean tells him. There’s a pause as Cas does so, then snorts a laugh.

“Touché,” he concedes, then turns his head to brush his lips against Dean’s temple, “but you’ve obeyed the apron, so now it’s time to obey me. Go sit at the table, I’ll fix you a bowl of soup.”

Cas can play him like a fucking fiddle, because as much as Dean knows perfectly well Cas isn’t gonna touch him in any way that wouldn’t be suitable for a young adult novel, those two casually spoken words _(“obey me”)_ send a thrill of heat through him that is most definitely unrelated to his fever, and he does exactly as he’s told.

Cas is as good as his word, and Dean’s first mouthful of soup brings his appetite back to life for the first time in three days. He devours a bowl of it and asks for another, which Cas promises to give him in a little while if the first bowl sits well.

“In the meantime,” Cas says, “you’ve sweated through your pajamas and probably the sheets. According to Sam, there are clean sheets in the dryer. Let’s get you into the bath and I’ll change them.”

“Ugh,” Dean groans, “I am so done with baths. I want a shower.”

“You may be steadier than you were, but you’re still not steady enough for me to leave you standing up on slippery tile, surrounded by surfaces more than hard enough to crack your head open.”

“Jesus Christ, it’s like you’re channeling Jess,” Dean says, not sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. “Fine, then, you’ll just have to shower with me.”

Cas leans back a little, searching Dean’s face, then nods. “Very well, but the rules still apply.”

As it turns out, if you have to have a fever, there are few things more awesome than your boyfriend washing your hair for you under a cool shower.

Dean even keeps his hands to himself.

Mostly.

~*~

It happens that Cas is at least as attentive a caretaker as Jess, but for some reason Dean doesn’t mind it so much when it comes from him. And he made enough chicken soup to last for days and still had some to freeze for Dean to have later.

Seriously, best boyfriend ever.

Dean’s fever finally breaks for the last time on Sunday morning, and he wakes up to find that the world has returned to sharp focus, that bizarre and uncomfortable haziness chased away. Cas confirms what Dean already knows with the thermometer, which declares his temperature to be a perfect 98.6°.

“Fucking _finally,”_ Dean breathes, as soon as Cas slides it out from under his tongue, “now get the hell over here, I can think of something else I’d much rather have in my mouth.” He’s reaching for Cas already, but the other man deftly steps back out of reach.

“Oh, no,” he tells Dean firmly, “not until it’s been gone for a full day. I’m not brave enough to go against doctor’s orders.”

“Oh my God,” Dean groans, “she’ll never know.”

“Just be patient a bit longer. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Dean only sulks for a little while, until he discovers that while he was asleep, Cas took the Impala to go get him ice cream. If you’re gonna get shot down, it turns out that drowning your sorrows in Ben and Jerry’s goes a long way to easing the sting of rejection.

~*~

Dean wakes up slow on Monday morning—kind of. He’s been drifting for some time, laid out on his stomach, half-aware of a light touch skating up and down his bare back. He continues to drift as the fingertips are replaced by what feels like lips and then a tongue, right up until he goes to reach back and touch Cas and discovers that he can’t move his hands, and that wakes him up quick.

He blinks a few times, struggling to make sense of what’s going on, until things finally click into place.

It’s been a full day since his fever broke, and—oh. _Oh._ Dean looks up and discovers that his hands are bound to the bedposts. How the hell Cas managed that without waking Dean up is a mystery he doesn’t honestly give two fucks about solving, because he’s fever-free and tied to the bed and the only thing he wants to focus on is what every inch of Cas will feel like buried inside him.

“I believe I made you a promise,” the man in question murmurs, nipping lightly at Dean’s waist, “but there were conditions on it. There are all manner of things I intend on doing to you, but first we need to make sure your fever remains gone.”

“It’s totally gone,” Dean tells him hastily, voice still thick with sleep, “I didn’t sweat at all last night, I feel great.”

“Mmmm, I would be remiss in my caretaker duties if I did not make certain,” he says. Dean sighs and opens his mouth, waiting for Cas to slip the thermometer under his tongue.

That’s not what happens.

Instead, Cas slides fingers into the waistband of Dean’s sweatpants, drawing them smoothly down until he pulls them off entirely. Dean blinks a few times, trying to reconcile Cas’s insistence that they need to check his temperature with the removal of clothes.

It’s not until the click of a cap sounds that something else clicks in Dean’s mind—but there’s no way. There’s no chance Cas is actually thinking of—

Yeah, as it turns out, there is a chance. A big chance.

Dean knows because a second later, one of Cas’s hands parts his cheeks, and something very, very slim and cold slides into him.

Dean groans a little at the penetration, barely a tease and nowhere near enough. One of Cas’s hands keeps the thermometer anchored inside Dean while the other plants itself on the small of his back, keeping him from arching his ass back into the barely-there intruder. Yeah, it’s not enough, but fuck, it’s _something,_ and Dean hasn’t had anything in his ass in weeks, not since the last time Cas talked him through fucking himself with a dildo (and that was a whole other level of hot).

“Now, now,” Cas says, voice slightly amused, “be a good boy and stay still for Dr. Novak.” This is the first time it occurs to Dean that this is not actually a false title. Cas is, in fact, a doctor, if not a medical one. The thought makes his stomach do a little dip. Dr. Novak and Mr. GED himself. This can’t possibly—oh, _shit._ Any chance of Dean devolving into rumination is blown out of the water when Cas starts twirling the thermometer.

“Jesus _fuck,_ Cas,” Dean breathes, and there’s a low laugh from behind him.

“No, it’s not Jesus that will be fucking you. As soon as we’ve ascertained that you’re healthy enough for it, of course.”

Cas leaves the thermometer in long after Dean knows the reading is complete, withdrawing it and then pretending to change his mind and sliding it back in. By the time he finally removes it, Dean is whimpering and begging for more.

“More?” Cas inquires, “Most of my patients find my insistence upon obtaining a rectal temperature embarrassing, but you took to it so nicely, Mr. Winchester. Perhaps I should replace it with something a little bigger.”

And then he does.

Seriously, though. Best. Boyfriend. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering what Dean's Puss-In-Boots-In-Shrek eyes are....  
>   
> is pretty damn similar to  
>   
> ...just sayin  
>  **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Object Insertion


	18. December 25, 2016 – April 30, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas brings up a lot of memories, both good and bad. Mostly bad. It’s an excellent time for making new ones, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

There was a time when Dean kind of hated the holidays. Years after they lost Mom, before Dad’s head-on appointment with a drunk frat boy in a pick-up, once Sammy hit age thirteen or so, the kid stopped holding his tongue with Dad. It wasn’t until a number of years later that Dean actually connected the dots and realized that Sam finally ran out of fucks to give right around the time Dean dropped out of his senior year.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to finish high school; he did. But holding down a job was a little spotty for Dad, what with the drinking, and Dean was determined that Sammy have stability through high school, so somebody needed to pick up the slack. He started short-order cooking at fifteen, taking his paychecks under the table since he was legally too young to work as many hours as he did. Rita, who owned the diner, had a soft spot for the Winchester boys. She didn’t mind when Dean dragged Sam along with him on his shift, just let the kid spread out his books in a corner booth and do his homework. She even insisted on feeding them both dinner before they went home.

By the end of sophomore year, Dean’s grades were already starting to slip. There just weren’t enough hours in the day for school, work, and homework and studying, so something had to go, and the first two weren’t negotiable at age sixteen. He worked full-time over the summer (more than full time, most weeks—five or six ten-hour shifts at the diner) and although he cut back when the school year started again, he barely passed junior year. Senior year was an academic disaster from day one (by this time, Dean was going straight from school to the diner and working till midnight, then dragging ass out of bed at six to get himself and Sammy to school on time), and the day Dean turned eighteen he walked into the school office and withdrew himself.

They didn’t even try to pretend they were sorry to see him go. When one of the secretaries asked indifferently what he was going to do, he told her the truth, that he was taking up short-order cooking full time. She told him that was probably a better choice for him, anyway, getting out into the workforce now. The implication—that he was too stupid for much more than dead-end jobs, and there was no point in giving someone like him an education anyway—was crystal-clear. He didn’t resent her for it, he figured she was probably right, but he’s never forgotten it either.

Anyway, Sam was furious—but not at Dean. He was always a smart kid, observant as hell, and he knew exactly why Dean had been killing himself at a minimum wage gig, and why he’d given up on education entirely now. So instead of holding his tongue, Sam started biting back at Dad when he was drunk and pissed (which was a lot of the time). Dean ended up dividing his time between cooking greasy food and mediating between Dad and Sam, trying to prevent them from killing each other.

You’d think they might’ve called a truce on the holidays at least, but those were some of the worst times. Dad got even more morose than usual about Mom and the life they should’ve had, so he drank more, which in turn pissed Sam off more, and…well, they didn’t exactly have banner holidays, anyway.

Even after they moved to Sioux Falls during Sam’s sophomore year, things were ugly. It would be a change of pace, Dad said. Closer to Uncle Bobby. A fresh start. Turned out to be about as fresh as moldy cheese, but Dean’s hopes hadn’t been real high anyway. The last Christmas they all spent together—Sam’s senior year (Dean vividly remembers waking Sam up on Christmas morning and spotting the Stanford application, half-filled out, on his desk) was maybe the worst. Dad wasn’t generally a violent guy, even when he was wasted, but when Sam sneered at him that Mom would be ashamed of him, Dad actually threw his half-empty bottle of Jack at the kid’s head, inspiring Sam to go for his throat.

They might actually have killed each other if Dean hadn’t been there. He laid Dad out with a single punch, left him on the floor, and took Sam out for Chinese food. By the time they got back, the glass had been cleaned up and Dad was nowhere to be found. He was gone for a couple weeks.

Six months later, Sam graduated with honors, valedictorian of his class, sporting a full ride to Stanford. Dad missed the ceremony, passed out on the floor of his bedroom, but Dean embarrassed the shit out of Sam, cheering himself hoarse and informing anybody who came within twenty feet of him that Sam was his brother.

Three days later, Sam packed his shit and climbed on a bus for Palo Alto. He’d gotten himself accepted to some summer-before-freshman year program, and was eager to get the hell out of Sioux Falls. He never looked back, and Dean didn’t blame him one bit. Sam had asked him to come too—practically begged him, but Dean insisted somebody needed to stay behind and make sure Dad didn’t die face down in a gutter. Sam argued, but Dean stood firm, and in the end they didn’t part on great terms. Sam said some really cutting shit about getting the hell away from his dead-end family with their dead-end jobs and dead-end lives (Dean had seen that razor-tongue tear Dad to shreds lots of times, but it had never been aimed at him before), Dean might’ve called him an ungrateful little shit—it was ugly.

He and Sam barely talked for the next two years, but Dean kept sending him checks for books and food and shit.

He spent the next Christmas drinking himself stupid with Dad, the one after that with Bobby, and the next two out in California with Sam, once they finally mended fences.

Three months before Sam finished his undergrad (summa cum laude, of course), Dad and the Impala tangled with pick-up-truck Frat guy and lost.

Sam didn’t come home for the funeral.

Dean didn’t blame him.

Insurance wrote off the Impala but there was no way Dean was letting it go. He had to pretty much rebuild it from the ground up, and while he knew something about cars, he sure as hell didn’t know how to do that. That was where Bobby stepped in, patiently guiding Dean through the process, never giving him a hard time for his obsession with repairing something that everybody else thought was irreparable. The old man seemed to understand that it was Dean’s way of grieving. That it was more than a car, it was his Dad’s only real legacy apart from one dumbass high-school dropout and one brilliant future lawyer.

In the end, when the old man saw how good he was at it, he offered Dean a job. Told him he could start out doing basic mechanic work (which he was more than capable of already) while he practiced restoring some of the junkers in the salvage lot. Dean didn’t hesitate to take him up on it. He was good at short-order cooking, but there was no real satisfaction to it. It was a paycheck, nothing more. Working at Bobby’s shop virtually doubled his income overnight and, maybe more importantly, when Dean walked out the door to go home at the end of the day, he felt like he’d _accomplished_ something. He got to make old things new again. He got to make broken things work again. It was more than he’d ever really expected for his own life, to have a job that he loved and was great at.

Sam started law school the next year and finally started coming home for vacations (well, when he wasn’t with Jess’s family) now that the drunken elephant in the room was gone for good. Since then, the holidays have actually been pretty great.

There were a few years where it was just Dean and Bobby (Sam and Jess joining them about half the time), but the gathering has grown a little bit at a time. The last couple Christmases have seen Bobby’s old house bursting at the seams, playing host to Dean, Sam and Jess, Ellen and Jo, Garth and Benny (and whatever significant other either of them happens to be sporting at the time), and of course Ash.

Ellen makes the turkey, Dean handles the sides with help from Jess and Jo, and they all eat themselves into a coma, watch football, open presents, and give each other endless amounts of shit. It’s a good time with people who are family or as good as. Dean didn’t really think there was anything missing from his holidays.

Turns out he was wrong, because having Cas there for Christmas is like having an empty space he barely even felt anymore filled to the brim with something warm and comfortable and perfect.

They wake up together on Christmas morning with slow, sweet sex, then stumble down the stairs for coffee and to exchange their own presents. The gifts for everyone else are piled up under the tree, but Dean and Cas agreed that they were going to exchange presents here at home, privately. It’s the first year Dean’s gotten a tree—never seemed to make sense before, with only himself in the house, but he wanted his first Christmas with Cas to be special. He’s planning on having a lot more of them, and he wants them to always remember this one.

Dean is floored when he opens up the somewhat haphazardly wrapped box to reveal a brand-new laptop. And not just any laptop, the one he mentioned longingly to Cas as his dream computer. It’s more than powerful enough for gaming, with great reviews and a nice, big screen for watching…things.

“Cas,” he protests weakly, “this is _incredible_ but it’s too much.” He knows how much the damn thing cost, he’s been staring at that number for months.

“Nonsense,” says Cas plainly, “if I want to spoil you I’m damn well gonna do it, and this is at least as much a present for me as it is for you.”

Dean raises skeptical brows at him, and a slightly evil smile takes over Cas’s face. “This computer is more than capable of managing Skype,” he says, “which means now I get to watch you fuck yourself just like I tell you, instead of just hearing those pretty sounds you make.”

“……” Dean entirely fails to come up with any rebuttal for that, and that settles it. He struggles to come up with the proper words to tell Cas how grateful he is, how much he loves it, but Cas understands.

Then it’s Dean’s turn, and he’s pretty nervous. It’s no state-of-the-art laptop. It harkens back to a single conversation he and Cas had in September, on the way home from the cemetery.

“You know,” Cas had said, “it’s really down to Jimmy that I became a melittologist, too. When we were small, he stumbled across an old children’s book at a thrift store and insisted our mother buy it. “All Kinds of Bees,” by Dorothy Edwards Shuttlesworth. Neither of us could read at the time, but he made mother read it to us at least fifty times in just that first week. When he—when we lost him, the book was one of the only things that comforted me. Mother wouldn’t read it to me anymore, but Gabriel and Anna did. When I got old enough, I started reading more about bees. The rest, as they say, is history.”

Dean, smiling, had squeezed Cas’s hand. “Let me guess, the book is still tucked into your bookshelf, right beside that enormous Bee Encyclopedia I practically killed myself with two days ago.”

Cas’s face darkened. “No, actually. My mother burned it the day I came out. Told me I didn’t deserve to have anything that had belonged to her perfect ‘James.’ I looked for a new copy once, but it’s been out of print for ages.”

Dean had been struck speechless by the cruelty of the gesture. It took him a minute to come up with something to say, and when he finally did, he spoke past a lump in his throat. “Oh, Cas. I’m so sorry.”

They’ve never spoken about it since, but Dean made a mental note of the book and the author, and as soon as he got home he started the search. He struck out over and over until he finally got smart and sicced Sam and Charlie on it. Between the two of them, they managed to hunt down not merely a copy of the book but a first edition. It wasn’t cheap and it certainly isn’t in perfect shape, but it doesn’t need to be in order to be perfect for Cas.

His own wrapping job isn’t much better than Cas’s, but it doesn’t really matter. Cas is never gonna remember the wrapping paper.

Just that first moment when he realizes what he’s looking at—every penny spent and every hour of internet searches and phone calls to rare book dealers was worth it a hundred times over, just for that look on his face. And that’s before he carefully opens it and realizes he’s looking at a first edition.

It takes Cas a long time to regain the power of speech and even longer to stop crying.

Later, Dean watches from the kitchen doorway at Bobby’s as Jess sticks a bow stolen from one of the presents to the top of Cas’s head while Jo tells him an embarrassing story about one of Dean’s particularly rowdy nights at the Roadhouse five or six years ago. Cas throws his head back to laugh at one point and the bow topples off. Bobby, who’s on his way past, neatly catches it and smooshes it back on, directly in the middle of Cas’s forehead.

As first Christmases together go, Dean’s pretty sure this one is a home run.

~*~

They opt to spend New Year’s Eve alone together at home, and it’s definitely the best New Year’s kiss Dean’s ever had. Especially since it expands into a New Year’s make-out session and then morphs into the first sex of the year, even slower and sweeter than Christmas morning. Dean wakes up on New Year’s Day with Cas slack-jawed and drooling on his chest, and if there’s any better way to start a new year, he can’t imagine what it might be.

Over breakfast, they debate what they’ll do for next New Year’s Eve, and this—this casual planning for the future—is so sweet it almost takes Dean’s breath away.

The world is a little greyer, a little dimmer after he drops Cas off at the airport a few days later, but the holidays are a bright little flame inside Dean, keeping him going.

The fact that the entire gang has fallen in love with Cas as surely as Dean has doesn’t hurt, either. None of them batted an eye at the fact that Cas is a dude, and now instead of teasing him when he’s on his Bluetooth taking to Cas at work, Garth and Benny just make him tell Cas “hi” for them. Even Bobby makes sure to gruffly ask after “your boy” every couple days, and Dean’s pretty sure the only thing that could make life better would be if the next time Cas came in, he didn’t leave at all.

The new laptop turns out to have more than one use, and the first time Cas talks him through fucking himself on camera, Dean announces that he clearly missed his calling as a porn director.

Cas wonders aloud whether he could direct bee porn, and they both end up laughing themselves stupid. Dean can’t remember ever having this much _fun_ with a partner before, but he’s damn sure Cas has ruined him for other men and women. When he expresses this opinion, Cas tells him that’s just as well, because he doesn’t ever intend to let Dean go.

~*~

When Cas comes out in mid-February, they take the entire weekend for themselves. Dean doesn’t even tell the gang he was in until he’s already gone (Bobby, bless him, facilitates this by telling Benny and Garth he sent Dean to work on a restoration at a guy’s house, because the car wasn’t in shape to be moved to the shop yet). The whole crew is so incensed by this that half of March’s visit is spent hanging out with them all, lest they murder Dean in his sleep and adopt Cas in his place.

Cas’s schedule at the university doesn’t permit him to come out for what Dean privately thinks of as their first anniversary (that fateful week in May, of course), but they schedule for late April instead, and that’s close enough.

Dean’s got plans for this visit. He wants it to be special. He makes a reservation at one of the nicest restaurants in Sioux Falls, he buys a few new toys for Cas to use on his favorite toy (which remains Dean’s ass), and he reserves them a cabin on Lake Alvin for a couple nights.

So when the phone call comes, two weeks before the visit, it hits him like a punch in the gut.

“Hey babe,” he says as he answers the call over Bluetooth, puttering around the kitchen as he works on dinner, “work any less crazy today?”

“Quite the contrary,” Cas says, sounding strained, “and one of my coworkers went into very premature labor and will likely be out for the next two months at least. I’ve been asked to take over her classes in addition to my own.”

Dean groans. Work has been out of control for Cas lately, and this is likely to add to his load tremendously. “I’m so sorry. Hannah couldn’t find anybody else to do it?”

“Nobody who’s both qualified and not a truly terrible lecturer,” Cas sighs. “She’d do it herself but she’s even more swamped than I am.”

“If you can hold out just a couple more weeks, you’ve got a whole five days of freedom coming,” Dean comforts. There’s a slightly too-long moment of silence on the other end of the line, before Cas speaks again, voice a little reluctant.

“About that,” he says, and Dean’s stomach drops a little. Those words are never good. “I got a call an hour or two ago. The Western Apicultural Society’s conference is the last weekend in April, and their keynote speaker just had to back out. He was my doctoral advisor, and long story short, they’ve—they’ve offered it to me.”

“Oh my God,” Dean says, “Cas, that’s _huge!_ What an opportunity! You get to talk about your research, right? And—oh,” he cuts off, as it fully registers. The last weekend in April. That’s _their_ weekend. And—fuck. Dean sets aside the wave of crushing disappointment and makes sure to infuse his voice with all the enthusiasm he really does feel about Cas getting that kind of recognition. “Babe, you have to do it. Please tell me you accepted. We can see each other anytime, career opportunities like this don’t come along every day.”

“I—told them I would get back to them,” Cas says, after a pause. “I wasn’t going to accept without talking to you first. Are—are you sure, Dean?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Dean says immediately, and he is. He would never ask Cas to pass up a chance like this. “Don’t you dare even think about turning it down. We’ve got the phone and Skype and you’ve already got reservations for the first weekend in June. It’s only five more weeks. We’ve gone longer.”

“You are _amazing,”_ Cas tells him vehemently, “and have I mentioned recently how much I love you?”

“Once or twice,” Dean says, “but I’m always open to hearing more. First, though, you have to go call them back and tell them you’re doing it. Go on, right now.”

“I’ll call you back as soon as I’m off the phone with them,” Cas promises.

While he waits for him to call back, Dean calls the restaurant to cancel their reservation, then leaves a message for the people who own the cabin on Lake Alvin. It’s too late to recoup most of his deposit, but maybe they’ll let him transfer the reservation to June instead.

It takes Cas almost two hours to call him back, but any irritation Dean might’ve been feeling is rapidly subsumed by amusement and affection. Cas is beside himself with excitement, babbling happily about other professionals who will be at the conference, panel discussions he’s been asked to participate in, and the fact that he’ll get to present his most recent paper (which isn’t actually being published till next month) on colony collapse to such a big audience, made up of the most important minds in apiculture and melittology. Dean listens and asks questions and laughs and says all the right things. And they’re all true! He really is excited for Cas. He really is thrilled that he has this opportunity.

He’s just…he just misses Cas, is all.

~*~

They only get to talk twice the entire weekend of the conference. Dean spends most of the weekend on the couch eating pizza, drinking beer, watching Dr. Sexy reruns, and feeling sorry for himself—everybody needs a good wallow from time to time—but Cas is running from sun-up to nearly midnight every day. He does make time to send Dean a selfie on the beach (the conference is in fucking Hawaii of all places, which makes Dean all kinds of wistful for St. John). He’s tanned and smiling (he went on a volcano hike with a whole group of melittologists the previous afternoon) and the caption says “Wish you were here. And I still sort of hate the beach.”

“Just don’t try to have any sandy sex and you’ll be fine,” Dean shoots back.

Cas doesn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Homophobia, mentions of past character death, alcoholism, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, mentions of child abuse, skype sex


	19. June 1 – 2, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel’s been coming to visit Dean for long enough that it’s really quite absurd he’s never been introduced to Charlie. It’s about time that changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

It’s been way, way too long since Cas has laid eyes on Dean. He’s got an entire album full of photos on his phone he can look at whenever he wants, and an entirely different album he needs to make sure to only bring out when no one else is around, one that makes Dean blush every time he mentions it. Still, he’s told Dean on numerous occasions to just say the word and he’ll delete every single one of _those_ pictures, and Dean has never taken him up on it, so it’s safe to assume the color in his cheeks comes from memories of the things being done in the pictures and not so much from shame. They’ve got Skype now that Dean has a laptop that actually works, which has made the distance seem much shorter, if not entirely erased it. But none of that is the same as being in the same state, the same room, and being able to reach out and touch Dean whenever he wants to.

It’s not even a sex thing. Okay, it’s not _only_ a sex thing. He does miss being able to kiss Dean whenever the urge strikes him, and to tug Dean into his lap to turn those kisses into something a bit more explicit. But what he really misses most is the way the air in the room changes when Dean’s around. Everything seems warmer, more comfortable. All the distasteful things about life seem a little bit more palatable. All the things he likes get even more enjoyable. Food tastes better when Dean’s around. He sleeps better with Dean in his bed. All the little aspects of day to day life are just that much better when Dean’s in his world.

The flipside of that is that every time they part ways, the color bleeds out, and everything gets a little flatter. Getting back on the plane every time he leaves Sioux Falls adds about ten pounds to the weight on his shoulders, and he’s tired before the wheels are even up.

Life’s not even that bad when he’s at home, really. Objectively, it’s pretty good. Busy. Definitely busy. But not bad. This keynote speech thing has garnered him a level of prestige and attention that he’d never anticipated, and it means he’s got some sway now. It means that after he met Balthazar at the conference in Hawaii, his suggestion that they bring the man on wasn’t dismissed out of hand. Oh sure, it’s still a watery maybe. They’re not handing him things on a silver platter. But he didn’t get the door slammed in his face and that’s not nothing. It’s a pretty big deal, all things considered. The university tends to have some pretty strong opinions on making their own hiring decisions, and they don’t really like being told who to bring in. You’d think a recommendation from a current and well-respected professor would go a long way regardless of extenuating circumstances, but that isn’t always the case. There are rules, apparently. Rules and protocols. It’s all a bunch of bureaucratic bullshit, if you ask Castiel, but at least they’re willing to listen. It’s a start.

He feels terrible that he hasn’t mentioned any of it to Dean. He knows he should but the time just isn’t right. Cas isn’t exactly sure when it will be. But it’s just…too soon. They’ll talk about everything eventually. He’ll tell Dean every last detail when the time is right.

The plane touches down in Sioux Falls and Castiel draws a deep breath, eager for the chance to stand up and stretch his legs. Dean will meet him at the arrivals gate like he always does, and Cas will need to be ready to go on like he’s not keeping a huge secret. It’s going to be a challenge, but he’ll figure it out somehow.

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to try that hard. The second he catches sight of Dean through the crowd, his heart soars and the butterflies in his belly swirl and dance, and it’s like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. He’s stepped into another world, the one where Dean is within arm’s reach, and all the colors are bright again.

Predictably, it’s remarkably easy for Castiel to put aside all his stress and his woes once he climbs into the passenger seat of Dean’s car. This 1967 Chevy Impala, he’s learned over the past year, is Dean’s prized possession. He loves this car like it’s a member of his family. Even though they’re a good 40-minute drive from Dean’s house, the second that engine rumbles to life it already feels like he’s home. A sigh drifts from his lips and with it, Cas’s cares drift away into the atmosphere.

“Do you like Thai food?” Dean asks over the growl of the engine.

Cas turns away from the window and smiles at Dean. “I do,” he confirms, “although I don’t do well with the really spicy stuff.”

“Great,” Dean says with a grin. “How do you feel about additional company?” Cas shrugs, noncommittal. “You know Charlie? The friend I set on the internet to track you down for me? She’s been giving me the screws over why I haven’t introduced you yet, and she suggested maybe bringing over some takeout and a few beers tonight. Thought I should probably ask you before I told her yes.”

“That sounds excellent.” Cas slips his hand into Dean’s free one, squeezing gently and relaxing at the touch of his skin. Later, once Charlie is gone, there will be a great deal more skin he wants to touch, and it won’t just be hands he wants to touch with, but for now, this is the best feeling on earth.

~*~

“What’s up, bitches?!” Charlie calls through the house. Dual thuds echo through the hallways, Castiel assumes from shoes she’s kicked off near the door, and a moment later a head of red hair pops out from around the corner. The broad smile on her face carries so much warmth that Castiel decides immediately that he likes her. Dean jumps up from the couch to help her with bags, but the second they both have free hands she’s pulling him into what looks like the tightest embrace known to man, nearly squeezing the life out of Dean. Castiel stands and approaches but hangs back while they make their greetings. When Charlie releases his boyfriend, Cas holds out his hand, but she takes one look, arches an eyebrow in a way that Castiel can’t help but admire, and throws her arms around his neck. He’s got no choice but to hug back. She holds him vicelike for far longer than he’s used to hugging people on introduction, only letting go when Dean taps her on the shoulder and gently asks for his boyfriend back. Cas beams, and Charlie beams back and apparently, that’s all it takes.

“I like this one, Winchester. He hugs good.” The little firecracker pushes up the sleeves on her flannel overshirt (Castiel wonders if _all_ of Dean’s friends dress like this), throws her hair over her shoulder and sets to work unpacking the takeout. Dean takes the case of beer she brought into the kitchen to chill and returns with three he already had in the fridge, plus a stack of plates and cutlery.

“So,” Charlie begins, taking on an authoritative tone that, from the look on Dean’s face, is not her normal demeanor. “You’ll have to forgive me for the lateness of this meeting. I _would_ have insisted on meeting you as soon as you and Dean got back in touch, but my work life balance has been conspicuously light on the _life_ and _balance_ aspects lately, and unfortunately heavy on the work. This is the first time you’ve been in town that I haven’t been so mired in… _things_ that I couldn’t dig my way out.”

“Completely forgiven,” Cas tells her, digging into a dish of red curry with shrimp. “I know a little bit about being buried with work, though I’m sure we’re not in the same sector.” He grimaces at the reminder of how much there is to do when he gets back to town. “What do you do?”

Charlie stares flatly. “That’s classified,” she replies, somber, then bursts out laughing. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

“Charlie does things with computers for shadowy government organizations and unscrupulous corporations who would rather not have their business known,” Dean chimes in.

“That’s not entirely true,” she corrects. “I only work for scrupulous corporations and the government stuff is only so I can make sure they’re not hiding things that the American people would be scandalized by. Plus, it pays really well,” she adds with a conspiratorial wink.

“I feel safer already,” Cas assures her, only somewhat joking. “So you were looking for me at the same time my brother was looking for Dean?” Charlie nods, her mouth too full of Pad Thai to voice agreement for a moment.

“Yeah and let me tell you, you’re not an easy guy to find,” she gripes, pausing to shovel noodles into her mouth. “Do you even have a Facebook?”

Cas shakes his head ruefully. “No. My students tell me I’m a little bit of a luddite but to be entirely honest with you, I do just fine with technology. I just don’t like the privacy issues of that site.”

“I hear you,” Charlie says with a nod of agreement. “Zuckerberg is a fucking monster. But like, it did make it hard to track you down, even for me, and I don’t mind telling you that I’m pretty goddamn unstoppable when it comes to finding people on the internet. I had this one friend in college, her boyfriend ghosted as soon as he found out she was pregnant and I managed to track him down even though he’d moved like eight states away, started using his mom’s maiden name, and was calling himself Chad. He’d even bought a pretty believable fake passport to support the identity change.”

“That’s…all that to avoid supporting a child?” Cas grimaces, his mouth turning downwards in disgust.

“Yeah, piece of work that one. Anyway, she didn’t even want the guy around after that but I sure had fun ruining his life on social media. I think he’s still banned from a couple sites.”

“Remind me not to cross you,” Dean shoots with a laugh, setting his beer down on the table. He disappears down the hallway towards the bathroom, and as soon as he’s out of earshot, Charlie’s entire demeanor changes. Her mouth, previously sporting a broad grin, flattens into a tight line, and the sparkle goes right out of her eyes, replaced by a dead-eyed stare that, in Castiel’s experience, only truly formidable women can ever properly master. He is not a man easily frightened, but it occurs to him that Charlie might be worthy of terror, or at least startled awe.

“Speaking of which,” she tells him, her voice carrying the power of storms, “Dean Winchester is very, very important to me. I just want to make sure you understand this.”

“I do,” Castiel assures her quickly. “I really, really do. He’s very important to me too.”

“That’s good,” Charlie carries on, her voice still devoid of levity. “Because Dean’s never dated a guy before. I’m sure he’s told you this.” Cas nods fervently. “He’s never had more than a one-nighter with a guy as far as I’m aware, and he tells me pretty much everything. So you’re going to have to be very, very careful not to take for granted what you’ve got here.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Cas rebuts. “I’m well aware of what an amazing man Dean is. More aware than he is sometimes, I think. But I do my best to counter his self-deprecation.”

“Lovely,” she says. “Still, I feel like this conversation would fall short if I didn’t state this clearly. If you hurt him, if you break his heart, if you make him cry, if you so much as set a single foot wrong with this boy, I swear to whatever pantheon of gods you least dispute the existence of that I will fucking end you. And I don’t mean that in an empty threat, make you fear violence when we both know you could kick my ass kind of way. I mean I will literally erase you. Social security, bank records, your degrees, mortgage, driving record, library card, birth certificate, passport, that grocery store near your house you have a discount card for, your fucking buy-ten-get-one-free frozen yogurt stamp card. All of it. Gone. It’ll be like you never existed. I will wipe you off the face of this goddamned earth so neatly and cleanly that Dean Winchester’s broken heart will be the only piece of evidence left that you ever drew breath, and I will laugh while I do it. Do I make myself clear?” Charlie delivers the whole monologue so calmly, with such a cold voice devoid of all emotion, that Cas isn’t actually sure if she’s rehearsed it to get the speech this precise, or if it’s so perfectly off the cuff and from the heart that she didn’t even need to think about her word choices. Either way, it leaves him gaping, mouth hanging open like a fish at market, and it takes a moment before he can bring himself to nod in acquiescence.

“Perfect!” Charlie exclaims, the light coming back into her eyes. She bounds out of her seat, playful nature once again covering up her terrifying other side. “Do you need another beer?” she calls over her shoulder, already half way into the kitchen.

“Please!” Cas calls. He’s still sitting there somewhat dumbfounded when Dean returns from the bathroom.

“What’s up Cas? You look like you just saw a ghost.” Dean leans down to steal a quick kiss, pressing his lips gently to Cas’ cheek. The tender gesture warms him a little, but he’s still reeling.

“Did you ever see the movie The Net? Mid ‘90s, Sandra Bullock?” Cas ventures carefully. Dean stares at him for a moment, confused by the question, and then his face shifts so abruptly that Cas can practically see the lightbulb forming above his head.

“ _BRADBURY!!!”_ Dean bellows, setting his shoulders as he barrels towards the kitchen. “I thought I told you to lay off of Cas!!”

Cas can’t hear their conversation very well over the sound of the music (Zeppelin IV, Dean insisted), but he’s sure the entire exchange would be highly amusing. For his own part, Cas isn’t even offended. Dean’s worth protecting, and he can’t blame Charlie for wanting to make sure he’s well looked after. If anything, it gives him a tiny kind of warmth in his belly to know that Dean has people in his life that care about him deeply enough to level those kind of threats.

~*~

It’s late by the time Charlie leaves, and with a full day of travel under his belt (plus three beers and a whole lot of carbs), Cas is exhausted. He’d be perfectly happy to fall asleep right there on the couch, but for Dean tugging relentlessly at his arms until Cas grumbles and lets himself be dragged to his feet. He shuffles zombie-like upstairs, the exhaustion holding center stage right through brushing his teeth and undressing for bed, but when Dean returns from the bathroom naked and pink from the heat of the shower, he’s suddenly not tired at all. Cas doesn’t even give Dean a chance to grab clean underwear out of his drawer before he’s on him, pulling him down to the bed so he can taste the toothpaste still on his breath.

“You’re exhausted,” Dean protests. “We don’t have to.” It’s a weak protest though, and Dean’s cock is already rising to the occasion.

“Is that a no?” Cas asks, already pretty sure what answer he’s going to get in reply.

“Hell no. You know I’m always ready to go. But just because we always get naked the first night you’re in town doesn’t mean we have to. We’ve got all weekend. You get a good night sleep and we can have morning sex.” His words are clearly sincere, but he can’t stop himself from kissing Cas anyway.

“Counter-offer,” Cas argues. “You fuck me now, I’ll fuck you in the morning, and nobody worries whether I’m too tired for sex.”

Dean laughs. Cas loves that sound. “Offer accepted.”

“Excellent,” Cas purrs with a grin, tugging at Dean until he concedes and climbs onto the bed, bracketing Cas in his limbs. Cas’ hand slides between them to make a loose fist around Dean’s cock. He strokes lazily, gently, just enough friction to get Dean’s hips moving in time with the action, and he sighs softly as Dean claims his mouth. There’s still the faint taste of mint on his breath, the cool flavor making Cas’s lips tingle.

As much as Cas loves fucking Dean, loves the absolutely intoxicating feeling of sinking his cock into Dean’s perfect ass and riding him until he screams, there is something incredibly appealing about switching it up from time to time. Dean submits so beautifully when Cas pins him down and slides home. When he’s on top though, the submission is nowhere to be seen. He’s passionate. He’s sensual. He moves like every thought in his head is about making Cas feel as good as possible, and _fuck_ does he make Cas feel good. Even before they really get down to it, when he’s just pressing Cas into the mattress with the hard planes of his body and kissing the breath right out of his lungs, he moves in a way that ignites desire in every fiber of Cas’s being. It’s not even a desire to take, not like usual. He could easily flip Dean over and ravage him if the inclination took him. It’s a desire to experience, to enjoy everything Dean has to offer.

Dean bats Cas’s hand away from his cock, moving sinuously as he works his way down Cas’s chest with a trail of heated kisses. He laughs softly at the hiss that escapes Cas’s lips when the first lube-slicked finger circles his hole, but his eyes are dark with lust and the smile that spreads across his face is nothing like the devious grins Cas gives up when their roles are reversed. He’s got no desire to tease, to taunt. Dean would probably have no idea what to do with a flogger or a paddle if Cas put one in his hands, and Cas wouldn’t want him to anyway. It doesn’t mean he’s without the skills to take Cas apart when the mood strikes him, though.

Dean’s fingers work magic, opening Cas up with slow and gentle touches until he’s nearly writhing on the bed, moaning and gasping softly. By the time Dean pushes in, Cas has a dreamy smile on his face, no longer feeling at all tired. He feels good. Happy. Loved. Dean lays himself down over Cas’s supine form as he starts to move, kissing like all he wants in the world is to feel the soft crush of Cas’s lips. Their bodies move in tandem like two halves of a whole, Dean driving into Cas sharply but unhurriedly, Cas rising up to meet his thrusts with perfect symmetry. Cas grasps his own cock roughly, jerking it in time with their movements, and it feels like no time at all before he’s spilling over his own fingers. It feels so good to have Dean working in him like this that Cas practically laughs through his orgasm, his moans taking on such a note of euphoria that Dean loses composure too, grinning and pressing kisses to the side of Cas’s neck while he chases down his own pleasure. Cas is pretty sure he detects a little bit of a chuckle in Dean’s shallow breaths right before he groans and stiffens. And really, who can blame them. If you can’t laugh your way through sex with the man you love, well, then there’s just no joy in life.

As much as Cas was exhausted before, he can’t resist when Dean coaxes him into the shower. Kissing Dean under the hot spray relaxes him in places he didn’t even realize he was carrying stress, and by the time they collapse into bed, he’s already drifting.

It’s a little later than he originally planned to get to bed, but it’s still the best sleep he’s had in weeks.

~*~

“So I was thinking, we should plan a trip.” Dean sets a mug of coffee down on the kitchen table, exactly the way Castiel takes it, and clutches his own steaming mug like it holds all the secrets of the universe. “Nothing huge, maybe just go somewhere for a weekend. I got a bit of extra money coming in since this one customer decided he likes how I do restorations and he’s been finding projects specifically for me, and I can’t think of any better way to spend it than stealing you away to a cabin or something for a couple of days.”

Castiel can’t deny that sounds appealing, but it also could not possibly be a worse time. “When were you thinking?” he asks carefully. “I don’t really have much vacation time left right now, so it might be difficult to plan.”

“Oh,” Dean replies, and Cas suddenly feels like the biggest heel. But he’s just trying to do the right thing. He’s trying to juggle so many things right now, and it’s getting harder to keep them all in the air. He’s not as young as he once was, and all this travel is exhausting. “Never mind,” Dean says, clearly hurt. “We don’t have to.”

“No, I want to,” Cas assures him. “I’m just not sure I can commit to a specific date for that right now. Let’s come back to it when my work schedule is a little less chaotic. A weekend away with you would be great.” And it would, it really would. Cas has to make some tough calls in the next little while though, and getting what he wants long-term might mean passing up some things he’d like to have in the short term.

“Okay,” Dean says quietly. His eyes don’t leave his coffee. “So it’s going to be a while before we get another weekend?”

“I hope not too long.” Cas’s heart hurts. He’s going to miss the whirlwind excitement of these visits, but he knew getting into this nearly a year ago that the current arrangement wasn’t going to work forever. Something’s got to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Bottom!Dean, Bottom!Cas


	20. June 12 – July 17, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. They never mention how much it hurts in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

  
Dean’s never been terribly good at goodbyes. Probably nobody is, sure, but they’ve always been especially hard for him. Maybe some of it’s because of the ones he never got to say—starting with the very biggest; his mom.

He was four years old. She had him kiss Sammy goodnight, then she took him into his room, tucked him into bed, told him she loved him and that angels were watching over him. She kissed his forehead, and when he fussed a little as she went to leave, she promised he would see her in the morning.

But he didn’t.

He never saw her again.

He didn’t get to say goodbye to Dad, either, and in some ways that was even harder. There was so much more _history_ in that relationship. So many more things that probably should’ve been said but never would be.

Anyway, yeah, goodbyes are rough, and Dean’s had more than his fair share of them in the last year. Last night, just for the hell of it (he was feeling especially maudlin), he counted. He’s had to say goodbye to Cas nine times in scarcely over a year. _Nine._

From the first melancholy farewell on St. John to the most recent parting kiss at the airport a couple weeks ago, Dean has had to watch Cas walk away (or do the walking away himself) nine wretched times. And it’s not getting any easier. If anything, the opposite is true. This last goodbye was the hardest by far since that final bittersweet moment on the island. Worse, in some ways, because there’s so much more between them now than there was after those first five days.

Then again, this goodbye felt more like that one than any of the ones in between have. When he left Cas on St. John, Dean thought he’d never see him again. This time, he knows they’ll see each other again, obviously, but he doesn’t know _when,_ and that stings.

This is the first visit that’s ended without concrete plans for the next one. Even on their whirlwind reunion weekend, Cas sat down at Dean’s ancient laptop and made plane reservations for his next visit the day before Dean dropped him off at the airport. Maybe it’s because of that horribly painful farewell last May, but neither of them has ever been willing to part without knowing when they’ll next lay eyes on each other, without a guarantee that they’re really saying ‘see you later,’ not ‘goodbye.’

But not this time. This time, instead of their comfortable ritual of pulling up calendars and schedules and sitting down together to make reservations before the end of the visit, Cas apologetically told Dean that things were just too crazy at work right now, and he was too low on vacation time.

It probably says some shitty things about Dean that it didn’t even occur to him before now how much vacation time Cas had to be eating up with these five or six day visits almost every month. Maybe in part he assumed that it was different for professors than people in…well, _normal_ jobs. He kind of figured that if Cas got somebody to cover his classes, and all his research was getting done, why would anybody care? Turns out it’s more complicated than that, and Dean feels kind of like a heel for his obliviousness.

He feels like a heel for a couple reasons, honestly. Cas so readily accepted Dean’s unwillingness to fly and has so consistently not made an issue of it that it’s been easy to forget just how much more effort he’s been expending to keep this relationship going. Flying from Ithaca to Sioux Falls is no fucking joke—it can’t be done with less than two layovers, and the shortest travel day Cas has ever had was around seven hours. While that’s obviously still a lot shorter than driving both ways, it’s a pretty hefty commitment, even before the actual monetary cost (it’s damn near $700 minimum roundtrip, and Cas has never once let Dean buy his tickets, although he’s offered). Despite the money, despite what a pain in the ass Dean knows the travel is (and despite more than one flight delay, missed connecting flight, or other assorted clusterfuck), Cas has never, not _once,_ given Dean shit for the fact that Cas is pulling way more than his own weight.

And then there’s the missed opportunities.

Cas loves his work—Dean has known this since before he even knew officially what Cas did. He’s incredibly passionate about apiculture and melittology, he’s got great relationships with his coworkers, and he’s clearly well-loved at Cornell. Last September, while Dean was visiting, Cas brought him along to the university once (he needed to grab a stack of papers for grading and they were already out). What was intended to be a quick in-and-out ended up taking close to an hour. First one of his grad students poked her head into his office to ask a question about something in her dissertation, then Hannah, the department head, stepped in to tell Cas a joke she’d heard from one of the other entomologists. Dean didn’t understand a damn word of it (he’s pretty sure about half was actually in Latin) but it had both Hannah and Cas nearly on the floor in hysterics. After that, another colleague appeared to ask whether Cas would take a look at a paper he was considering submitting to a journal, and while they were literally on their way out the door, an undergrad waylaid them to thank Cas for taking the time to answer a complex question she’d emailed him last week.

It had been an illuminating experience, and left Dean with that familiar weird mixture of pride and shame. Pride because hot damn, his boyfriend was a genius, well-respected and beloved by colleagues and students alike. Shame because what the hell was a guy like Cas doing dating a dead-end dropout like Dean?

Dean has no illusions about himself. He’s a meathead. He’s the brawn to Sam’s brains (not that Sam is any slouch himself physically). Sure, he does a lot of reading in his own time, tries to keep his brain working as much as he can, but he’s no academic. Cas has a well-established career with a great professional reputation, multiple publications, a book in the planning stages, and four degrees (including a doctorate). Dean has a GED and a job that leaves him sweaty and filthy at the end of every day. No matter what Cas says to the contrary, Dean is more than aware that Cas is well out of his league. His secret fear, the one he never talks about and tries not to even think about, is that one of these days, Cas is going to figure that out and finally kick Dean to the curb.

Thus far, though, Cas has been all in on this relationship. And more than once, when faced with the choice between Dean and advancing his career, he’s chosen Dean. The amount of travel required to maintain their relationship has been getting in the way of a lot of opportunities. Dean knows about at least a few of them—some invites to speak at other universities, at least three conferences in the past year that he declined to attend (with invitations to present at two of them). There have probably been a lot more that Cas hasn’t mentioned to Dean for fear of making him feel bad. Hell, he wasn’t even going to attend the Western Apicultural Society’s conference in April before he got the invite to step in as keynote speaker. And Dean feels completely certain that if he’d expressed even a moment of hesitation about Cas accepting the invitation, he’d have refused it.

He doesn’t have a fucking clue what he did to deserve Cas—which is actually a little stressful, cause he doesn’t know how to make sure to keep doing it. Dean is the luckiest sonofabitch on the planet, and he’s gonna enjoy every damn day of it until his luck runs out.

So he’s doing his best to be patient, to be a good sport. The conference was, after all, a career-making opportunity, and it seems to have done just that. He’s in greater demand now than ever before—he’s been asked to co-author papers with a number of illustrious minds in the field, a few particularly prestigious universities have invited him to speak, he’s spending a lot more time on the phone and consulting with people not just around the country but around the world. Dean has never been prouder of him, even if it means that Cas has been stretched a lot thinner than he already was. Even if it’s gotten a lot harder to maintain their previous level of contact.

There was a time when they were on the phone for hours most nights, Cas narrating the papers he was grading, Dean giving a running commentary on cooking dinner, chatting and laughing and occasionally dropping everything (including clothes) for a whole other kind of bonding. That’s not the case anymore. Cas makes sure to find time to talk to Dean every day (well, almost every day), and they still text a fair amount, but he’s clearly busier than he’s ever been.

“Hey, babe,” Cas says, answering the phone after four or five rings, “give me just a second.”

“Hey, I—oh, sure.” Dean waits patiently, listening to the sounds of paper rustling, then muffled voices in the background for a minute or two before Cas comes back.

“Sorry about that, my office hours ended an hour ago but don’t try telling the students that.”

“I can’t blame them,” Dean says, “who wouldn’t want to spend extra time with you?”

Cas laughs, the fond affection in the sound warming the place inside Dean that always feels a little chilly when Cas isn’t around. “Oh, yes,” he says dryly, “who wouldn’t want to spend their time around the absent-minded professor who forgot to shave this morning, put on one black and one brown sock, spilled coffee on a pile of newly graded papers, and took the last ham sandwich in the departmental meeting this afternoon.”

“Hey,” Dean says, “don’t talk shit about my boyfriend. You know, the one who’s a brilliant, highly sought-after expert on melittology, looks sexy as fuck with two-day stubble, is unbound by arbitrary cultural norms like matching socks, likes to decorate his students’ work in new and interesting ways, and made sure to leave some kosher options for any Jewish colleagues?”

Cas has laughed himself weak by this point, and has to catch his breath before he can speak. “I love you, you know that?” He tells Dean. “My best cheerleader.”

“Always your number one fan,” Dean agrees, grinning, “and if you play your cards right and ask really nicely, maybe we can make something happen with a little cheerleader skirt one of these days.”

“Jesus, you can’t put images like that in my brain while I’m at work.”

“Oh, yeah? You’re telling me, the amount of time you spend at that big, beautiful mahogany desk, and you’ve never thought about what it might be like to bend me over it? Never thought about what it’d be like to put me on my knees under it, sucking you off while you grade papers?”

Cas groans, deeply but quietly, and Dean can practically see him run a hand over his face and through his hair, no doubt making it even more of a sexy disaster. “You’ll be the death of me, Dean Winchester.”

“Possibly,” Dean agrees readily, “but you’ll die happy and sated.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Cas says, chuckling, “look, I hate to do this, but can I call you back later, once I get home? I really need to go consult with Hannah about B—about something, and then I needed to finish up reviewing the last round of edits the Journal of Apicultural Research sent back on my paper.”

“No problem,” Dean says readily, “I’ll be around all night. Unlike you, my evening consists of eating leftovers and deciding whether to rewatch Die Hard or more Dr. Sexy.”

“You are a man of simple tastes,” Cas says, amused but affectionate.

“Yep,” Dean agrees, “my needs are pretty mundane. Talk to you later babe. Love you.”

“You too,” Cas says, then raises his voice, clearly not talking to Dean, “no, it’s okay, I’m just hanging up, come on—“ The call cuts off, Cas no doubt turning his attention immediately to another student who can’t read office hours, or maybe a colleague.

Dean putters around the house, heating up his leftovers, cleaning the living room, running to the grocery store (yes, _that_ one, Dean finds himself partial to it since he rediscovered the man he loves there) for a six-pack, then settling himself down in front of the television. He goes with Dr. Sexy, if only because once Cas gets home and calls back, Dean can sometimes wheedle him into putting the episodes on too, and his commentary is side-splittingly funny.

The evening ticks by, and eventually it’s late enough that Dean starts getting ready for bed, telling himself that Cas will check in when he can. He’s not the standing-you-up kind of guy. It’s just shy of midnight and he’s just turned the light off when he gets a text:

Received: _I’m so sorry, things never slowed down. I just got home maybe twenty minutes ago and I’ve gotta teach a seminar in seven hours. Talk tomorrow?_

Sent: _Of course. Get some sleep. Love you._

Received: _You too._

~*~

As it happens, they don’t talk the next day, but they do text periodically throughout the day, and Cas sends him a picture of his feet in one black and one brown sock. Before he reads the accompanying text, Dean assumes this must be a picture from yesterday, but nope, turns out it’s from today:

Received: _It was stressing me out having half of each pair of socks in the hamper and the other half in the drawer. Never let it be said I am not a problem solver._

Sent: _It will never be said. I’ve definitely never said such a thing. And I’ll kick the ass of anyone who does say it. A+ solution, babe._

Received: _You always give me an A+. At everything. I’m starting to think your grading might be biased._

Sent: _No way, you’re just a model student. The fact that you suck my cock on occasion has nothing to do with your grades (but you earn an A+ in that, too, incidentally)._

Received: _I will endeavor to maintain my 4.0 GPA, especially in that particular subject._

Sent: _I have perfect faith in you._

Received: _You always do. Gotta run, stopping by the lab to check in on my grad students and then dinner meeting with a colleague. I’ll try to call you afterward._

Sent: _Don’t get stung._

Received: _You know, it’s very rare for most species to sting without pr—you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?_

Sent: _I would never. Love you!_

Received: _Smart-ass._

Sent: _Better than the alternative._

So yeah, texting isn’t quite as satisfying as actually hearing his voice, (okay, it’s nowhere near as satisfying), but they still enjoy each other, no matter what medium of communication they’re using.

The next day they finally get to talk, but it’s not exactly the phone call Dean was hoping for.

“Well, hey stranger,” Dean says, face already breaking into a grin as he answers the phone.

“Hey, I’m so sorry I didn’t call last night. The dinner meeting ran unbelievably late. We closed out the restaurant.”

“I hope you tipped well,” Dean says, remembering how frustrating it was for the wait-staff at the diner when people stayed well past closing and then gave shitty tips.

“Always,” Cas responds, sounding slightly offended that this would even be in question.

“Listen,” Dean says, “I know how intense work is at the moment, but it’s been three weeks since you were here. What do you think about looking at the calendars, trying to get something figured out for next month?”

“Oh, Dean,” Cas says, real regret in his voice, “I wish I could, believe me. Things are just—I feel like a hamster on a wheel somebody else is spinning just a little too fast. It’s nonstop.”

“That’s because you’re the best. I’ve been saying it for months, it’s about time everyone else figured it out,” Dean says, forcing a cheerful bravado into his voice, despite how abruptly his stomach has plunged into his toes.

“Look, give me another month or so and I’ll have things—hold on.” There’s a brief pause, then Cas speaks again, but not to Dean. “Bal, I can’t right now, I’m—yeah.” Another short pause. “Sorry, Dean, I’m back.”

“No problem,” Dean says, reminding himself (not for the first time) of exactly how unfair it would be to give Cas a hard time for the delayed visit. He needs to keep his sadness and hurt feelings (which are probably unreasonable anyway) to himself, “and I completely understand. Sorry to keep bugging you about it.”

“No,” Cas says hastily, “please don’t apologize. I love that you want to see me so much. I want to see you too, things are ju—Bal, not _now!_ Seriously, just give me three minutes, okay?” Cas interrupts himself again, this time in mid-sentence, amused exasperation lacing his voice. “Sorry again, I just—have a colleague who isn’t nearly as funny as he thinks he is.”

There’s a muffled sound in the background, someone else talking, but Dean can’t tell what they’re saying. Cas huffs out an unwilling laugh. “Fine, yes, if I tell you you’re funny will you let me get off the phone in peace?”

Dean’s fingers tighten on the phone a little. Get off the phone? They just got on the phone! Lately it feels like even when they talk, it’s not for long. It’s like Cas has to steal a minute here, a minute there, and almost immediately his _real_ life—the one right in front of him, rather than 1200 miles away—pulls him back in. Dean wouldn’t trade these conversations, no matter how brief they are, but it’s hard to have Cas for so little time.

There’s more muffled talking in the background, Dean thinks maybe the voice has an accent? He can’t be sure. “Dean, I’m so sorry,” Cas says again, sighing, “but I need to go deal with this. I’ll call you—I’ll try to call later, okay?”

“No problem,” Dean says, even though it sort of is a problem, “Hang in there, the hamster wheel won’t last forever.”

Cas sighs even more deeply, “I hope not, cause I’m exhausted.”

“I just bet. Try to get some rest if I don’t talk to you later. I love you.”

“Me too,” Cas says. There’s a brief pause before the line goes dead, in which he hears Cas start laughing. “Oh my God,” he says, frustration warring with amusement in his tone, “You are such a _jerk,_ you can’t even give me five minutes to—“ The line cuts off, leaving Dean staring at his phone and trying to ignore his rising unease.

~*~

Okay, here’s the thing.

He’s been trying to ignore it, because he’s an insecure dickhead and Cas doesn’t deserve the weight of his emotional baggage, but something’s _off._ It’s been off for a couple months now, pretty much since the Western Apicultural Society meeting, or somewhere right around there. Cas has been distracted. More distant. Less attentive. And if Dean didn’t know better, he’d _swear_ the other man was hiding something.

But he _does_ know better. And of course Cas is going to seem different, of course he’s going to be a little distracted. His career is coming alive in a whole new way. He’s being truly accepted as an expert and one of the leading minds in his field. He’s unbelievably busy—even under the best of circumstances, he’d be overwhelmed and exhausted, and having a boyfriend who keeps putting pressure on him to drop everything and fly out surely isn’t helping.

So Dean sucks it up. He’s patient and supportive and understanding and he doesn’t give Cas a hard time for how dramatically their contact has dropped off. Dean doesn’t give him a hard time for the frequently-interrupted phone calls or the unanswered text messages. He doesn’t demand an explanation for the responses that sometimes sound oddly evasive. He just…throws himself into his own work as much as possible over the next couple weeks.

And he definitely doesn’t reveal his disappointment that it’s a foregone conclusion at this point that he and Cas won’t be together on their _real_ anniversary (well, the second of their two anniversaries, Dean guesses). Last year, the second-to-last weekend in July, Cas came to South Dakota for a conference and they found each other again. That’s when they really got together, when a vacation fling with feelings turned into a real relationship. Dean’s just kind of assumed, pretty much for months now, that they would spend it together.

But Cas hasn’t even brought it up—maybe doesn’t even remember. And Dean, who is just barely managing not to say something a little sarcastic when Cas has to cut short a phone call for the millionth time in the last month, doesn’t bring it up either.

~*~

It’s a conversation with Bobby that finally makes the lightbulb go on.

“So when’s your boy coming in next?” He grunts, coming into the break room to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“Dunno,” Dean says, really not wanting to have this conversation, “work’s really crazy for him since that conference in Hawaii. He’s really in demand now. And he used up all of his vacation time coming out here the past year.”

He feels oddly defensive of Cas’s long absence. Sure, _he’s_ frustrated as hell, but he doesn’t want anyone else thinking ill of Cas. The whole gang loves him, and that makes Dean incredibly happy. He doesn’t want to dim their adoration of Cas or how wholeheartedly they’re all rooting for this relationship.

“Then why haven’t you gotten your ass out there?” Bobby asks, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Ain’t it been almost a year? Comin’ up on an anniversary one of these days?”

Dean freezes, coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

Why _hasn’t_ he gotten his ass out there? He’s gotten so used to Cas pulling more than his fair share of the weight that instead of getting off his ass and planning a trip when it became clear that Cas wasn’t gonna be able to swing a week away for a while, he just sat around sulking. What kind of selfish asshole doesn’t even think about returning the favor? Yeah, it’s a long drive, and yeah, Cas is busy enough that Dean will probably end up spending a lot of time watching Netflix while Cas is at the office or hunched over papers or on the phone with distant colleagues, but what the hell does all of that really matter? The very _least_ he can do is put his money where his mouth is and get himself out there.

“That,” he tells Bobby after a few long moments of silence, “is an excellent question. How’s my vacation time looking?”

“You barely took three days off total the first five years you worked here, son. If you need time off, say so. Just finish that restoration you’re workin’ on first.”

“Should be done in a couple days.”

“Then consider yourself exiled for a couple weeks as soon as it’s finished. Go see your boy.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get all weepy on me, princess. And Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, as Bobby pauses on his way out of the breakroom and turns back to face him.

“You got a good fellow out there. Don’t fuck it up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Mentions of past character death


	21. July 17 – 24, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Determined to make their anniversary something special, Dean sets out on a road trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

Cas toppled (quite literally) back into Dean’s life on Thursday, July 21st last year, so Dean has decided to think of that as their anniversary. Granted, they didn’t actually have a ‘we’re a couple now’ conversation that day—come to think of it, they kind of never did, it was just understood—but it’s definitely the day they said ‘I love you.’

This year July 21st is a Friday and that’s a good thing, because Cas’s last class gets out in the early afternoon, leaving him with a whole weekend to grade papers, review journal articles, and do whatever other big-shot melittology things are on his plate. He hasn’t mentioned any big meetings or events or anything scheduled for this Friday, either—in fact, on the phone last night he made some throwaway comment about looking forward to being able to do a little relaxing at the end of his week. As far as Dean’s concerned, this is proof the universe is a fan of his not-so-devious plan.

On his way home from work after that conversation with Bobby, Dean calls Cas, ready to break the news that he’s gonna drive out for a week or so. Cas doesn’t answer, and by the time he calls back later that night, Dean’s decided that if he’s going to be spontaneous and romantic, he ought to really go for broke and make the visit a surprise. Cas will be thrilled, and Dean figures when you’re in a long-distance relationship, there’s no better gift you can get your partner for your anniversary than yourself, in the flesh. And that’s essentially his plan in a nutshell—get there on Friday, sweep Cas off his feet, and drag him out for a nice anniversary dinner.

Cas has been working so hard, bordering on exhaustion and testing the limits of his stamina for weeks now. He deserves a nice surprise. He deserves a boyfriend who’s supportive not merely over the phone but in person, too. And he definitely deserves a killer blowjob or twelve.

So if maybe there’s a tiny voice in the back of Dean’s head whispering that if Dean told Cas his plan, Cas might say ‘I appreciate the thought, but…’ Dean’s mostly able to ignore it. Really. That’s not why he’s choosing to surprise Cas.

Well. Not mostly, anyway.

Dean’s not a great liar, but he thinks he manages to do a pretty good job of not clueing Cas in that anything’s up as he plans his trip and gets packed. It’s easier than it might’ve been a few months ago, since they’re still struggling to find time for more than quick conversations here and there.

Thursday morning dawns sunny and hot as hell, and Dean’s in the car and on his way before seven. He might be a little overeager, but fuck it, he hasn’t seen his boyfriend in almost seven weeks. It’s a long fucking time to be apart, and Dean is anxious to finally set eyes (and, yeah, hands) on Cas.

Mindful of the fact that Cas is without question going to sternly demand to know whether Dean marathoned the drive or not, he’s planning to do the bulk of the drive today, but stop off and stay over at a hotel tonight. Then he can be up early and hopefully make it to Ithaca right around the time Cas’s last class lets out. He’s kind of hoping he can sneak up there and convince the departmental secretary (adorable little dude named Alfie, Dean only met him briefly the one time, but he’s clearly a sweet kid) to unlock Cas’s office for him so Dean can be kicked back in the desk chair waiting when Cas opens the door. It’s a pretty killer plan if he does say so himself (and he definitely does).

Without traffic or detours, the trip is a solid nineteen hours. Dean intends to put away at least fourteen of those hours today and give himself a much more leisurely drive tomorrow.

As usual, though, the best laid plans go oft awry. Dean runs into construction that detours him off the interstate for a good fifty miles just over the Wisconsin state line, adding at least an hour to his travel time, and then there’s a pile-up with a couple fatalities around Rockford. He’s at a dead standstill on the interstate for over two hours while they get things cleaned up, and once traffic finally gets moving again, it’s still awful slow going. He pushes himself, driving later than he’d intended, but he still doesn’t make it much past South Bend before he has to throw in the towel.

It feels like an inauspicious start to a trip, and his mood is not nearly as good as it was starting out as he topples into bed that night.

He sleeps a little later than he meant to, but he’s still on the road before nine. What it means is that there’s no way in hell he’s gonna be able to execute his plan—he’ll be lucky to make it to Ithaca before seven, long after Cas has finished up his classes. Still, given the way the last few months have been going for him, there’s a decent chance he’ll still be at his office, so that’s where Dean plans to go.

The universe appears to be trying to make it up to him today, because it’s smooth sailing. He makes good time, doesn’t run into any egregious traffic, and the closer he gets to Ithaca the more he can feel those familiar excited butterflies flapping away in his stomach. He can’t wait to see Cas, can’t wait to see the expression on his face when he spots Dean. Can’t wait to wrap his arms around Cas and bury his face in his hair to smell that mingling of mango shampoo and old books and _Cas._

The nearer he gets the slower time seems to move and the longer the miles seem to be, but sure enough, it’s only quarter after six when he pulls into a parking space outside Comstock Hall, where Cas’s office is housed.

He heads straight for the office in question but finds it locked, and no light shines from under the door. Huh. Dean was sure Cas wouldn’t have headed home by now, but maybe he’s in the lab. It’s…in some other building, Dean’s not sure where, which means he needs to find somebody who does know.

Unsurprisingly, the department is pretty quiet after six on a Friday evening, but Dean’s luck hasn’t run out, because when he pokes his head into the main office he finds Alfie just shutting down his computer and packing up to head out.

“Hey,” Dean says, tapping on the door and giving the kid a smile, “sorry, don’t mean to hold you up, but quick question.”

Alfie startles a little but smiles back sunnily. “Sure, what can I help you with?”

His face says he doesn’t remember Dean, but there’s no real reason he ought to. “I’m wondering how I can find my way to the pollinator lab,” Dean tells him, waving a hand, “I know it’s close by but I can’t remember which building.”

“Which one?” Alfie says, tucking a folder into his bag. “We’ve got five.”

 _Five?_ Dean thinks his eyes might be bugging out a little bit.

“I—wow. Whichever one Dr. Novak works in? I’m looking for him.”

“Oh! Okay, well, he divides his time between the Danforth and McArt labs, but he’s not in either one of them now.”

“Damn, I missed him, huh? I’m—in from out of town and I was planning on surprising him. I know how busy things have been so I figured he’d still be at work. I’ll head for his place. Thanks, though!”

Dean has already turned to go when Alfie calls after him. “Wait! He’s not at home either! One sec, let me double check where his reservations were for, maybe you can go surprise him at the restaurant.”

He turns around, frowning a little. Cas hadn’t mentioned any dinner meeting for tonight, and Dean just talked to him yesterday evening, albeit briefly. “Oh, he had a dinner meeting?” He could just be making conversation, but he’s not. Not completely. He’s fishing, he knows it, and it’s probably a shitty thing to do. Alfie’s gonna tell him where Cas is eating dinner, Dean can go surprise him there, and Cas will answer any questions Dean has. Probably this is just a last-minute thing, anyway, and that’s why Cas didn’t mention it.

“Yeah—well, kind of—not really? It’s complicated,” Alfie says, glancing up and grinning, “it’s more a celebratory thing than a meeting, really.”

“Oh, a celebration?” Dean says, surprised that his voice sounds so neutral, “what’s the good news?”

“Well—you’re Dr. Novak’s friend, you said?”

“I—yeah, that’s what I said,” Dean tells him, not entirely sure why he’s not just saying ‘no, he’s my boyfriend.’

“So then I’m sure he’s told you about Dr. Davenport—Balthazar,” Alfie presses on, oblivious to the stab of anxiety Dean gets. He thinks maybe he’s heard the name once or twice in passing from Cas, and something else is tugging at him, something he feels like he ought to remember but doesn’t.

“I…know the basics, but fill me in on the details,” Dean says, and Alfie is only too happy to oblige.

“So you know they met at the Western Apicultural Society meeting. I think they’d probably corresponded before but they really hit it off in person, and since they’ve basically been doing the same research on opposite sides of the Atlantic, they had a lot to talk about. Anyway, Dr. Novak convinced Bal to come stay for eight weeks while he was on sabbatical from Harper-Adams—you know, in Britain.” Alfie seems to assume that as Cas’s ‘friend,’ he will of course have filled Dean in on all of these exciting developments.

How very wrong he is.

“Yeah,” Dean manages to choke out, “sure, of course.”

“Anyway, Castiel recommended that Balthazar be brought on by the department on a more permanent basis, and Bal definitely wanted to stay. They’ve been working their asses off for the last couple months. Academia tends to work slowly, as you might guess, and they were really pushing for the appointment to be complete before Bal’s sabbatical was up and he’d have to head back to the UK.”

“Sounds like Castiel was really invested in making this happen,” Dean says, then flinches hard as something comes back to him. Cas, barely suppressing laughter as he tried to get off the phone with Dean.

_Bal, not now! Seriously, just give me three minutes, okay?_

_Fine, yes, if I tell you you’re funny will you let me get off the phone in peace?_

_You are such a jerk, you can’t even give me five minutes to—_

Bal. Balthazar. Right there, Cas had literally been _next to_ the guy while he and Dean were on the phone and still, he couldn’t even mention that one of the main things that had had him busting his ass was this guy, this professor from England?

“Oh, yes,” Alfie says, still entirely oblivious to Dean’s internal struggle, “they both were. Thick as thieves, the pair of them. Anyway, they finally got word this afternoon—Balthazar’s been invited to join the faculty full-time. Tenure track and everything!”

“That’s—great news,” Dean says. His fingertips are numb. He’s not entirely sure that he’s breathing. “So they went out to dinner to celebrate.”

“Exactly,” Alfie says, “and here we are. They’re at Taverna Banfi—it’s in the Statler Hotel. Easy walk from here, actually.”

“Great,” Dean says, trying to get himself to stop talking but unable to, “is that where Dr. Davenport is staying?”

“Oh, no,” Alfie says, turning wide eyes to Dean, “he was for the first week or so after he got here, but then there was a plumbing issue at the hotel and Dr. Novak offered to let Balthazar stay with him while it got sorted out. I think he’s been there since.”

Dean’s entire universe grinds to a screaming halt.

“He’s been sta—I’m sorry,” Dean croaks, “thanks for the info, but I’ve gotta—I’m gonna go—“

“Yeah, of course,” Alfie says, frowning a little for the first time, “if you head west from the building, the hotel’s maybe a five-minute walk across campus. Hey, you look a little pale, are you okay, Mr…?”

“Winchester,” Dean says numbly, “Dean Winchester. I’m—fine, thanks Alfie.”

Before Alfie can ask anything further, Dean is out the door.

Alfie’s right, the walk is a short one, and that’s good, cause Dean’s mind is getting away from him, and he needs to get it under control. So Cas hasn’t been telling him about this coworker of his, so what? There’s gotta be a good explanation for it, right? Dean will just—he’ll just go to the restaurant, meet up with him and ask him directly. It’s not—there’s no need to panic.

He’s paying pretty much no attention to where he’s going, so it’s probably at least eighty percent luck that Dean finds himself standing in front of the Statler Hotel several minutes later. It’s literally on campus, so he can see why its restaurant would be a good choice for academics in search of a meal.

A really, really _nice_ meal, as it turns out. The place is incredibly swanky, and Dean immediately feels underdressed when he steps inside. Jesus, Alfie wasn’t kidding about the celebration. Dean will eat his own boots if there’s any entrée on the menu that goes for under forty bucks.

Turns out he’s not the only one who thinks he’s underdressed. The maître d’ steps up, giving Dean a subtle once over and taking in his jeans with the hole in one knee, his somewhat rumpled t-shirt, his clunky boots. It’s road trip wear, and it made perfect sense for Dean’s needs, since he didn’t have half a clue that he’d be stumbling his way into a four-star restaurant on, ironically enough, his one-year anniversary.

“Good evening, sir,” the man says, interrupting Dean’s reverie, “and welcome to Taverna Banfi. Do you have a reservation?”

“I—no,” Dean says, “not exactly. I’m here to surprise my—an old friend,” he changes course at the last minute, again not entirely certain why he’s doing so, “I was told he’s having dinner here. Dr. Novak? The reservation might also have been under Dr. Davenport.” Dean is pretty fucking impressed with how calm and collected he sounds, considering that he feels neither calm nor collected.

“Oh, of course,” the maître d says, smile warming slightly, “I can direct you to their table, although if you do decide to join them for dinner or a drink, you should be aware that we have a dress code. I can provide you with a loaner sport jacket if necessary.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, managing to refrain from rolling his eyes with some effort. Seriously? This place must think pretty damn highly of itself, “I’ll let you know.” He didn’t realize until this moment that part of him—a large part—is quite certain that he won’t be staying.

Which is ridiculous.

He just drove well over twenty hours to surprise his boyfriend, and that’s damn well what he’s gonna do.

“Very good, sir. The doctors are dining in the small dining room, just over there, if you’d care to go say hello.”

“Thanks,” Dean says again, absently, and steps past the maître d, who looks a little surprised. He was probably expecting to guide Dean over to the table or something, but Dean’s not the standing-on-ceremony kind of guy. Honestly, he’s not the Taverna Banfi kind of guy. He doesn’t feel at home in a place like this. Probably never could.

But he seems to be the only one.

He should’ve put more stock in his instincts, because the second Dean starts to come around the corner into the small dining room, he realizes his gut knew the score long before his brain was willing to get on board.

He freezes, one foot in the dining room, peering around the corner at one of the tables tucked into the back of the intimate space. There’s a split second where his heart soars as his eyes lock on a familiar and much-loved profile. Cas is clad in his customary suit and his hair, as usual, is a complete catastrophe. He’s been known to bemoan its unwillingness to behave, but Dean’s always thought it’s both adorable and sexy simultaneously.

That brief spike of joy only makes the following moments hit that much harder.

Across the table from Cas is a handsome, aristocratic looking blonde. He’s older, but far from old, and he wears the years well. The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle appealingly as he laughs, leaning close across the table. Cas is laughing too, head tossed back before he too leans in close.

There’s such an intimacy to the moment—as if he’s witnessing two people who know each other extraordinarily well. Two people who care about each other. Two people who— _oh God._

He’s heard people talk about the sensation of being plunged into ice water before, but Dean doesn’t think he’s ever truly understood it before this moment. He stands there for a heartbeat, face numb, heart pounding.

Maybe if he were another man, this is where he’d stroll across the space and cockily inquire “Hey, fellas, am I interrupting something?” Maybe if he had four degrees and multiple publications and a doctorate, or hell, even a fucking high school diploma, he’d feel empowered to cross this room and confront the man he loves, the man who’s supposed to love him. Maybe he’d cause a scene, pitch a fit, throw a punch, break a glass. Maybe he’d at least stay long enough to see it all—to see the moment when they bridge the gap and kiss, because surely that’s what they’re building up to?

He’s not another man, though. He’s Dean Michael Winchester, high school drop-out, mechanic, dead-end meathead, and a part of him knew all along that this was too good to be true.

He hasn’t entirely made the decision to do so before he finds himself backing up a step, then another. Maybe some part of him sees the two men bend their heads low over something on the table, but he doesn’t register it. He’s still stuck in that moment when Cas started to lean toward _Dr._ Davenport _._

Before he knows it, Dean finds himself back at the maître d’s station, and the man steps up before Dean can stagger outside.

“Ah, sir, will you be joining the doctors this evening? I have a coat set aside for you that I believe is your si—“

“No,” Dean says numbly, “no, I’m not staying. I just remembered I have a—I’ve gotta go.”

“As you say, sir,” the maître d says, eyes narrowing on him a little bit. Under other circumstances, Dean might think that expression is one of concern, but now he assumes it’s contempt, because what else would the impeccably attired front-of-house manager of a joint like this feel for a guy like Dean?

He distantly hears the maître d wish him a good evening, but he doesn’t really process it and he certainly doesn’t respond. He’s too busy devoting every ounce of strength he’s got to putting one foot in front of the other.

If he barely noticed the walk to the restaurant, he doesn’t register the one back at all. He simply finds himself back at the Impala, standing stupidly next to the driver’s side door and staring around him at the campus.

It’s a beautiful place, really. Most campuses are, in Dean’s very limited experience. Stanford was beautiful, too. Not bad places to spend four years, or even a career—or so Dean imagines. He’ll never really know, because this is not the kind of place he belongs. Not the kind of place he could ever belong. And the people here—well, he doesn’t belong with them either. That much is achingly, painfully, _agonizingly_ clear.

He’s only been once before, but he still takes a second to glance around the campus one last time, to say goodbye. There was a time when he imagined he’d be seeing a lot more of this place over the years. Maybe even settle down in Ithaca, eventually. He wouldn’t have wanted to leave Sam and Jess and Bobby and everyone, but maybe someday, it would’ve been worth it, to take the next step toward building a life with Cas.

Dean didn’t quite realize before this moment just how much he had banked on that life. Just how deeply invested in it he was. Just how much he was counting on it. He doesn’t suppose it matters, anyway. Some investments pan out, some fall apart. This one—it didn’t pan out. Probably never would have—never could have. Dean was always way, way the hell out of his depth. What was he, really? A vacation fuck that outlived its expiration date. A fling. A fanciful way to pass the time, something pretty to look at and mildly entertaining, probably endearing, but ultimately little more than a warm place for Cas to stick his cock.

And oh, did he ever do that. Went where no man had gone before and everything. Jesus, it must have been a hell of a conquest, getting such a macho, swaggering, blue collar man’s man to roll over and take it.

Dean hasn’t eaten anything since lunch, so when his stomach suddenly revolts, he doesn’t bring up much more than half a cup of coffee, burning bile, and then nothing at all. The dry heaves don’t last long, thankfully, because the campus is far from deserted and the last thing Dean needs is this latest layer of his debasement witnessed by the kind of people who belong in a place like this.

He hangs onto his baby’s sideview mirror for support, riding out the last of the waves of nausea. As soon as he’s sure it’s passed, he unlocks the Impala and slides back into the driver’s seat. Time to get the hell out of here, once and for all. Time to go home, back to Sioux Falls, back to his house and Bobby’s shop and his mundane, blue collar, dead-end life. Sure, it’s no Cornell. It’s no doctorate. But it’s his. It’s somewhere he belongs, in a way he never could’ve belonged here. And the fact that Cas, who is so entirely at home on a campus, also seemed to effortlessly belong with Dean and his people back in Sioux Falls?

Well, that doesn’t matter now. What matters is that Sam was right, that night before he left for Stanford. People like him, like Cas—the Stanford kind of people, the Cornell kind of people—they’ve got no more in common with dead-end guys like Dean than a monarch butterfly has with a gnat. Sure, Sam came back—even apologized for what he said—but that doesn’t mean he was wrong. He’s family, of course he was gonna find room for Dean in his life. Cas, though—Cas isn’t family. Dean thought he was, but he isn’t.

And now he never will be.

Dean turns on the car and eases her out of the parking space, heading for the interstate. He’s low on gas, but he can’t bring himself to stop and fill up before he gets on the road. He can stop a few towns down. For now, he badly needs to leave Ithaca in his rearview mirror, along with the wreckage of his plans and the life he actually thought, just for a little while, he was gonna get to have.

He really should have known better.

~*~

He drives all night, stopping only for gas, the bathroom, and endless cups of coffee. By mid-morning, when he knows he’s running the risk of dropping off at the wheel and killing somebody, he admits defeat and pulls off into a rest stop. There’s a big exit another couple miles along, a bunch of hotels and restaurants advertised, but Dean doesn’t bother with it. He can nap in the car, no need to stand on ceremony. No need to pretend to be anything he’s not. Not anymore.

He sleeps for two or three hours, might’ve even given himself longer than that, but as soon as he’s awake enough for his brain to start working again, he knows he needs to get back on the road. He can’t—he needs to not give into it yet. He can feel it hovering over him, encroaching, crawling nearer—the crushing grief that’s going to swallow him whole—but he can’t. Not yet.

First he has to get home.

He stops at that big exit long enough to fill up the tank and get another cup of coffee and a couple fast food burgers. Then he gets back on the road.

The Impala eats up the miles, and the further Dean gets from Ithaca the more surreal it all seems. The entire last year, like a dream, like someone else’s life. Something amazing and beautiful and entirely not for him.

He doesn’t listen to music, doesn’t do anything to offset the tedium of the many hours on the road. He simply exists, and that only because he doesn’t really have a choice.

It takes him some time to realize that he’s holding his breath waiting for the phone to ring. Trying to decide what the hell he’s going to say when Cas calls. When it finally rings, Dean’s heart seizes so hard in his chest that he actually has to pull off the road or risk crashing. Turns out it’s Sam, and Dean sends the call to voicemail without a moment’s hesitation. He doesn’t want to talk to Sam right now. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

That decides it for him. He puts the phone on silent, even turns off its vibrate function. He doesn’t want to know if Cas calls. He’ll decide how to handle it later.

He needn’t have worried. Hours later, only forty miles outside Sioux Falls, Dean finally checks the phone.

No missed calls.

It shouldn’t really be a surprise. It looked like Cas’s time was pretty well spoken for. He was, after all, celebrating.

Only when the door has closed behind him, when he stands, alone and exhausted, in this house that he bought for almost nothing and fixed up with his own two hands, only then does Dean finally let the tears come, fast and silent and unending.

Probably he should be angry—furious, even. He’s not. Why bother? It won’t change anything, and honestly, it’s not like he can _blame_ Cas. Of course he’s gonna prefer a gorgeous, brilliant colleague to dead-end Dean. Anybody would. He does wish Cas had just told him, had just come clean, but clearly he had bigger worries than officially breaking it off with a guy all the way across the country. It doesn’t matter, really. None of it does.

Dean is grateful for his crushing exhaustion—it’s almost certainly the only thing that actually lets him sleep. He leaves his phone on silent, falls into bed and passes out for over twelve hours.

He wakes up with a knot of dread in his stomach, afraid to check his phone. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say when Cas texts him, when Cas calls.

He needn’t have worried.

Cas doesn’t call.

Not that day, and not the next one either.

There’s more than one way of breaking it off, Dean guesses, and maybe if he’d been paying attention over the last couple months, he’d have realized that’s exactly what Cas was doing—gaining some distance. And now that Cas has everything he wants, now that the guy who’s actually on his level is there to stay—well, clearly he’s done playing the long game.

It’s okay, though. Really, it is.

What’s one more goodbye?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Themes related to infidelity


	22. July 25 – 27, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Castiel wasn’t so busy making plans, he might have seen this mess coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

Something is off. What, Castiel isn’t entirely certain, but something. He would have to be incredibly obtuse not to have some idea that things haven’t been easy over the past few months, but it’s starting to feel like that isn’t the only thing straining the relationship. It’s been four whole days since he’s had so much as a text message from Dean, and even with the weight of Castiel’s excessive and ever-growing workload taking up most of his time and energy, he’s got enough presence of mind to know that’s a red flag.

When he dials Dean’s number and the line starts ringing, Castiel can already hear Dean’s warm voice in his mind. He hadn’t quite realized until this very moment how much he’s missed hearing it. He misses it more now after these four days (not to mention the nearly eight weeks of conversation reduced in both duration and frequency) than he did during the entire time between those five days in May and their unlikely reunion. All he wants is to hear Dean’s voice. It’ll make all of the struggles worth it. He’s got nearly all his ducks in a row now. There are still a few things to do, of course, a few more boxes to check and a few more signatures to obtain, but the long road is nearly over and there will be so many rewards to reap for all his hard work.

Dean doesn’t answer the phone.

Cas shouldn’t read anything into that, but it’s hard not to. Dean always takes his calls, and they haven’t gone this long without speaking since they got back in touch in the first place. Actually, come to think of it, since the conference in Hawaii when things really took off career-wise for Castiel, Dean’s been initiating most of their communication in the first place.

Immediately, Castiel feels awful. His plate has just been so full these past few months that it’s been hard to make time. He never meant to neglect Dean. Unfortunately, now that he’s managed to spare a few minutes to actually think about it (wow, he’s been exceptionally obtuse, hasn’t he?), it’s pretty obvious how unfair he’s been to Dean. Sure, it’s been hard to fit everything into his schedule, but he should have _made_ time. Dean is everything to him. It should have been priority number one.

As soon as he gets Dean on the phone, he’s going to come clean. It’ll feel good to have everything off his chest, and maybe it’ll go a little ways towards repairing the damage he’s done by being so distant and inaccessible lately. It won’t fix everything. Castiel has a strong suspicion he’s going to be down on his knees begging for forgiveness next time he sees Dean. Actually, come to think of it, maybe he should lead off with getting down on his knees. Dean is always so much more…relaxed after a good orgasm or two. Perhaps Castiel should steal away to Sioux Falls for a surprise visit, blow Dean’s mind, and then tell him the whole story. It’d probably go over a lot better that way.

He dials again, and it only gets to the third ring before cutting off and going to voicemail. He’s staring at his phone, perplexed, when there’s a knock at the door to the office. Glancing up, he finds his doorway darkened by Balthazar. One day Cas is going to have to ask where the man finds such deep v-neck sweaters, if only so he can avoid shopping there himself.

“Have you had time to go over those syllabi?” Bal inquires without pretense of greeting. “I know you’re so busy lately, I really do, but I have to get them to Hannah and…” Castiel cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“I have them right here,” he replies, reaching into his briefcase. He comes up empty handed. “Shit. No I don’t. They’re at home. I’m sorry.”

“Not to worry,” Balthazar chirps. “Just bring them tomorrow. You’ll be heading home soon anyway, won’t you? It’s getting late. I’m actually surprised you’re still here.”

Castiel sighs heavily. “I suppose so, but I still have so much to do around here and---“

It’s Balthazar’s turn to cut Castiel off. “You’re no good to anyone if you burn yourself out. Collect your things, get in that dreadful little thing you drive, go home, pour yourself a glass of wine, and call that beautiful mechanic you’ve got pining away in the Midwest. Come back tomorrow feeling refreshed. You’re in the home stretch now, darling.” Balthazar picks up a frame off of Castiel’s desk, one that holds a picture of Dean and Cas from one of their first visits last summer. He doesn’t even remember who took it for them, probably just some random stranger Dean handed his phone to, but their smiles are both so real and genuine that it instantly became his favorite photo. It sits on his desk to remind him of how much better thing are when he’s got Dean. “He _is_ pretty, isn’t he?” Balthazar sets the photo down with a melodic laugh.

“I’ve been trying to call him,” Castiel explains. “His phone keeps going to voicemail.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Balthazar assures him with a pout that _seems_ insincere and condescending, but then, everything Balthazar does seems insincere and condescending. “He’s probably just staring dreamily at a photograph of you with hearts in his eyes, and the Celine Dion record he’s got for soundtrack is turned up too loud to hear the telephone. Try him again when you get home.” Balthazar flits off out of the office with a backwards wave, already perfectly at home here even though he isn’t technically official faculty until the beginning of Fall term.

Castiel’s entirely certain he’s wrong about the Celine Dion part, but he hopes Balthazar is at least on the right track with the rest.

It’s nearly nine by the time Castiel gets home after making a detour to the grocery store. He’s almost as bad with grocery shopping and meal prep lately as he was during that awful time when he thought he’d never see Dean again. There’s a dead-looking apple in his crisper and some bread in the freezer that is so freezer burnt they could probably put it on display in the Smithsonian beside the mammoth bones, but nothing approaching edible food. It’s either the grocery store or takeout, and if he sees one more container of chow mein he’s pretty sure he’s going to quit eating altogether.

Castiel dials Dean’s number while he unpacks the groceries, his face screwing up in confusion when it rings through to voicemail again.

“Hey love,” he murmurs to the recording. “You must be busy with a big restoration. I tried calling a few times today but I couldn’t get you. Anyway, Balthazar made me leave the office at a somewhat decent time tonight and I don’t have any work at home so if you’ve got some free time before you head to bed give me a call and we can chat a bit longer. I’ll leave my ringer on when I go to bed, don’t worry about waking me up. It’s been days since we talked. I’d rather hear your voice than sleep right now. Bye!”

Castiel hopes he doesn’t sound as sad on his voicemail as he feels.

He calls Dean again right before turning in for the night, but this time it doesn’t even ring, instead offering him Dean’s recorded _Leave your name, number, and nightmare at the beep_ immediately after the call connects.

 _I miss you <3_, he texts. The tauntingly blank screen of his phone is the only reply he gets.

~*~

After two days without speaking to Dean (well, really more like six, but two since Cas actually tried to call him and realized how long it’d actually been), Cas is starting to get worried. He can’t fathom what might be wrong, but he’s certain it’s something. Sam has his number in case of emergencies, should he desperately need to get in touch with Dean during one of their visits, so he’s sure if anything catastrophic had happened he’d have gotten wind by now, but that doesn’t explain Dean going radio silent for nearly a week.

Maybe he lost his phone? That would explain it going right to voicemail the other night. Although, it did ring when he tried it earlier today so it’s definitely not turned off. Technology issues?  Unlikely. Dean would certainly have replaced his phone by now if it died, and even if he lost all his numbers in the process he’d have missed calls and voicemails from Cas and would have gotten back in touch. He wracks his brain trying to come up with some kind of reason that Dean might have gone this long without calling him back and he can’t come up with a single one that makes any sense.

Castiel is just about to leave the office for the evening, on time for the first time in heaven only knows how long, when he makes one last (he assumes) futile effort to contact Dean. The line rings one, two, three times, and he’s opening his mouth to speak to Dean’s voicemail again when the call clicks over. Dean doesn’t say anything though, there’s just the dead air and slight static that tells him he’s got a connection.

“Dean? Are you there? I’ve been trying to call you all week. Is everything—“

“Stop calling,” Dean implores, barely above a whisper. “I can’t do this. I can’t believe I ever thought this was going to work. Do us both a favor, lose my number.”

“Dean, I don’t understand,” Cas replies, confused and, unsurprisingly, frightened, but the call is already disconnected. Frantically, he dials Dean’s number again, but it goes straight to voicemail, and he knows Dean’s stubbornness well enough by now to know that if he’s turned his phone off, he won’t be turning it back on for the rest of the evening.

Cas stares at the phone in his hands like a poisonous serpent, fearful of what might happen if he loses sight of it for even a second. He can’t process. Did Dean just break up with him? Is that what this is?

Numbness covers Castiel like a blanket. The minutes tick by without number, and he doesn’t come up with any answers he likes. He knows he’s been distant recently, and even before Dean stopped calling, Castiel was aware on some level that the lack of proper communication was hurting them, but he was sure it would all work out in the end. Despite his rugged exterior, though, Dean has always been somewhat sensitive. Apparently he’s easier to hurt than Castiel ever imagined. He should have been more careful. He should have come clean right from the start.

Maybe he can still fix this. Dean is upset, obviously, and he has every right to be. Castiel will give him some time and they can sort this out. He’ll fly out there as soon as he can get Dean on the phone, let him know he’s coming out to apologize, properly, in person. He’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever Dean needs. This is worth everything.

It’s stoic determination and a rumbling stomach that eventually motivate Castiel out of his office. The sun has already begun its descent towards the horizon when he closes the office door behind him. To his surprise, Alfie is still at his own desk working away on something or other; the boy’s industriousness will never cease to amaze.

“Finally heading home, Dr. Novak?” he greets, grinning warmly. “Bet you’ll be glad when the long hours are all finished, hey?”

“Truly,” Castiel agrees, meaning it now more than he ever has. “I could use a very, very long vacation.”

Alfie nods, his face softening sympathetically. “It must have been nice to have your friend in town visiting last week though. I bet that helped you relax a little.”

Castiel begins to reply in the affirmative but catches himself, mouth open with the words dying on his lips. “My…friend?” he repeats, confused.

“Yeah, he came by here looking for you the day you and Dr. Davenport left early to go to dinner. You know the guy. Tall, kinda looks like a model of some sort. You know, ruggedly handsome. I think he said his name was Winchester? He was really excited to hear that you and Dr. Davenport got everything squared away for him to sign on to the department. At least, I think he was. He didn’t actually come right out and say it, but his eyes went really wide when I told him. He ran out of here pretty fast after that. I figured he was just really eager to go meet up with you guys and celebrate.”

“Oh, yes,” Castiel replies leadenly. “That friend. Yes he was…it was…thank you Alfie.” It’s shock that sets his tone now. Dean was here, right outside his office, and Castiel had no idea. Dean came to town without telling Castiel, and left without even visiting. He showed up, spoke with Alfie and then…

“Alfie,” Cas asks carefully, his voice a reflection of his growing dread, “did he say where he was going when he left the office?”

“Well yeah,” Alfie replies in his usual chipper tone. “He was gonna come meet you at the restaurant. Seemed pretty eager to get out of here once he realized where you were. Guess he knew what a big deal it was to get Dr. Davenport hired here.”

“Did he say anything else?” Castiel ventures

“He asked where Dr. Davenport was staying. Thought he might be at the Statler since you were having dinner there. It was really nice of you to let Dr. Davenport stay with you after the plumbing issues.”

“I…Dr. Davenport isn’t staying with me,” Castiel answers, probably more defensive than necessary.

“Isn’t he? I thought I heard you say he was?” Alfie says quizzically.

Castiel shakes his head. “No, we discussed it, but Balthazar has a short term lease on an apartment just off campus. He only stayed in my spare room for the first few days after the Statler’s pipes burst. You told Dean that Dr. Davenport was staying with me?”

Alfie nods. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize he wasn’t. Still, it was very nice of you to offer. Have a nice evening,” Alfie calls after him.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, but his feet are already carrying him out the door. He’s got even more questions now, questions he’s not sure he’ll like the answers to, but he has to ask.

The restaurant doesn’t seem nearly as lavish when he walks in through the front door today. The furnishings all feel garish and overly ornate, and it’s hard to imagine ever having liked it here before. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Castiel knows it’s just his current mental state making the place seem unpleasant, but it doesn’t make it any easier to shake. He must look entirely out of sorts too, because when he approaches the maître d’, the man’s mouth tightens into a thin line of disapproval for a second before his professionalism wins out and replaces it with a tight smile.

“Good evening sir, and welcome to Taverna Banfi,” he intones with practiced grace. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Oh, um, no,” Castiel replies, attempting to gather himself. He’s certain it’s the same individual that led himself and Balthazar to their table the other night, so if Dean was here he’d probably know, but how to even go about asking?

“I’m afraid we are booked solid this evening, sir, so I can’t offer you a table, but perhaps a seat at the bar would suffice?” The sympathy in his voice is saccharine and possibly false, but he sells it so well.

“No, thank you. I’m actually hoping you can provide me with some information.” The maître d’ tilts his head in silent inquiry, not necessarily an offer to comply but at least a willingness to hear the question. “I was here for dinner with a colleague about a week ago. It’s possible there was a man here looking for us. Early to mid-thirties, lighter hair, he would likely not have been dressed to your standards. Do you remember him?”

“Ah, yes,” the man replies quickly. “I recall. I offered him a loaner jacket if he’d chosen to join your party, but he didn’t end up staying long enough for me to retrieve it. I directed him to your table and sent a busboy for the jacket, and less than a minute later your friend informed me he’d remembered a prior engagement and had to leave.”

It doesn’t make any sense. Why would Dean show up in Ithaca, make his way all the way to the restaurant where Castiel was sitting, and choose that very moment to turn around and walk out? Something must have set him off. Something must have upset him.

Oh.

Oh no.

“I don’t suppose you remember how late in the evening this was?”

The maître d’ inclines his head in thought, casting his eyes up as he tries to access the memory of a single man out of many patrons. It was a long shot, Castiel knows, and he shouldn’t be surprised that he’s come up empty. “I think it can’t have been much later than seven. The restaurant was not particularly busy at the time and we don’t usually have a full house until around seven thirty or eight.”

Seven. Castiel left for home at quarter to eight. He’d only had one drink himself, knowing he’d have to drive home, but Balthazar had no such reservations. _We’re celebrating,_ he’d said, and ordered an unnecessarily expensive bottle of champagne for the occasion. And they _were_ celebrating. Balthazar had been formally hired on at Cornell. The ink was dry on Castiel’s book deal. Everything was finally falling into place.

Unfortunately, Castiel drinking only one glass of champagne means that Balthazar drank the remainder, and by the latter part of the evening, the time when Dean would have shown up at the restaurant, he was swaying in his seat, mumbling when he spoke, and generally behaving childishly. Castiel had to lean in to hear him over the din of the restaurant and more than once, stretch out a hand to steady the man and remind him to stay upright in his seat. And Dean already thought Balthazar was living at Castiel’s house. He already thought they were out celebrating something Castiel hadn’t seen fit to share with Dean.

Cas knows exactly what conclusion Dean arrived at when he stormed out of the restaurant, and it makes him want to scream. Can he blame Dean for thinking he’d been seeing Balthazar behind his back? Of course not! Does it rip his still-beating heart from his chest to think that Dean is home in Sioux Falls, believing that Castiel cast him off so easily? Without question.

Barely aware of his actions, Castiel fishes a bill out of his wallet in appreciation of the maître d’s time and somehow finds himself outside the restaurant, staring in the direction of his office with no plans on heading that way. He doesn’t need to go back to work. He needs to get home, and he needs to get Dean on the phone, and he needs to make him understand.

It’s nearly half an hour before Cas can calm himself down enough to get behind the wheel of the car, and even then he’s hesitant. His hands are still shaking, his stomach in knots. Before he puts the key in the ignition, he makes what he already knows is a futile attempt to get Dean on the line. He calls three times, each call ringing through to voicemail before he hangs up and tries again.

On the third try, he finally leaves a message.

“Dean. It’s me. Please, please call me back. Please just let me explain. I love you. I need you. Please don’t shut me out. Please talk to me.”

He doesn’t even know if Dean will hear the message, but he has to hope.

Castiel doesn’t sleep. He goes to bed nearly immediately, but sleep won’t come. He can’t stop thinking of the pain Dean must be in, having seen what he thinks he saw. It makes him physically ill to imagine the suffering that Dean’s been going through since last…

Oh no.

Since last Friday.

Since the anniversary of the day Castiel fell back into Dean’s life.

How could Castiel have possibly been this stupid? He hadn’t even remembered the importance of the date enough to call Dean, let alone make time in his schedule for a trip. Dean must have driven out here to surprise him for that very reason, and this was his reward.

That settles it. If sleep won’t come for him and Dean won’t take his calls, Castiel will do the only useful thing left to him at this ungodly hour of the morning. By the pale light of the moon he creeps out of bed, retrieves his laptop and his wallet, and books the first available flight to Sioux Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings** mentions of infidelity


	23. July 28, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you’ve got something this good, it’s worth fighting for. Even if the person you’re fighting is the one you love the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

Most times, when Castiel flies out to South Dakota, the drudgery of travel is softened somewhat by the anticipation of seeing Dean again. He’d rather not spend eight hours shuffling through lineups for security, boarding, waiting, and deplaning, but the promise of ending the day in Dean’s arms makes it all seem a little less painful. This time though, he doesn’t have a warm welcome guaranteed at the end of a long day of travel. He has no idea what kind of reception awaits him now. Dean could slam the door in his face. He could refuse to open it in the first place. But Castiel has to hope. He has to try.

There are things he should be doing right now, things the university needs from him, but he can’t make himself focus. The flight is long enough that usually he’ll get some reading done or pull out his laptop and work on one of the many projects he’s juggling. Last time he flew to Sioux Falls he managed an impressive amount of editing before the plane touched down. This time, not so much. He doesn’t even bother pulling his laptop out of his carry on. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he bothered to bring it. There was never any chance that he was going to accomplish anything today. He’s got far more important things on his mind.

Castiel tries to sleep, forehead propped up against the bulkhead, but he only manages to drift off for a moment or two. His mind is reeling, too overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he has to accomplish once he gets to Dean, and rest won’t come. It should. He barely slept last night after it all came tumbling down around him. Even after finalizing his travel plans, he couldn’t settle. What if he slept through his alarm and missed his flight, losing out on his chance to make things right with Dean? Too paranoid to risk it, he finally just gave up and packed for the trip, watching the nighttime give way to dawn in the slowest procession known to man, counting down the minutes until he could leave for the airport.

The entire time, as the hours ticked by agonizingly slowly, he mentally flagellated himself for setting this catastrophe in motion. If he’d only talked to Dean in the first place, explained himself, none of this would have happened. Dean would know the truth, would never have had reason to doubt. If he’d made more time in his schedule, fit in phone calls and stolen moments to send text messages, Dean would have felt all the love he so very much deserves and would never have been primed to believe the worst. If Castiel had just taken his blinders off for one goddamned minute, he’d have seen the chaos he was wreaking in time to stop it. Now, he’ll be lucky if he even gets a chance to try to repair the damage he’s done.

He called Sam just before leaving for the airport. It seemed wise, if risky. Sam is, after all, Dean’s brother, and if it came down to it there’s no question about where his loyalties lie. He could have called Dean and warned him that Castiel is coming. Dean could know he’s on his way before the plane even reaches cruising altitude. If he really wanted to avoid a confrontation, he could be hiding out at Charlie’s place, or Sam’s house, or any number of locations that Castiel wouldn’t have the first clue how to suss out, and Cas would be thoroughly out of luck once more. Sam, however, being the more level-headed of the Winchester brothers, promised not to go down that route.

_“Hey Cas,” Sam greeted cheerfully. “Wasn’t expecting to hear from you. How’s the visit going? Dean hasn’t called me all week. I bet you guys are having a great time.”_

_“No,” Cas admitted grimly. “Dean isn’t here.”_

_“Um…what? Where is he?”_

_“I assume he’s at home,” Cas tells him, cringing as he speaks. “He never actually told me he was coming to visit, and when he arrived…Sam, I made a terrible mistake, and Dean won’t take my calls. You haven’t heard from him all week?”_

_“Not since before he drove out to see you. What did you do, Cas?” It startled Castiel how quickly Sam slid from a conversational tone into a voice heavy with unspoken threats. He’d never heard Sam sound that ominous before, and it was truly unsettling._

_Castiel drew a deep breath, sighing heavily, and explained everything. He told Sam the entire ordeal, from the conference in Hawaii right up until his conversation with the maître d’ at Taverna Banfi. Every single word that he desperately wanted the chance to tell Dean._

_“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” Sam shouted at him when he finished. “How could you possibly think that was a good idea?”_

_“I just…I didn’t know how to bring it up, and then things got so much more involved, and then I was so busy all the time we were barely speaking anyway and…I think I may have ruined everything.”_

_“That’s…why are you calling me, then? Why not Dean?”_

_“He won’t answer my calls. He lets them go to voicemail or just turns his phone off. I’ve been sending him text messages but I’m sure he deletes them without even reading them. I don’t know what to do.”_

_“I don’t know what to tell you, Cas. This is big. He’s gotta be feeling pretty fucking betrayed right now, and I think he will be even after you tell him the truth.”_

_“I know,” Cas answered quietly. “I was hoping you’d been in touch with him this week, that maybe you’d be able to give me some kind of idea how he was feeling so I knew how to approach him.”_

_“You want me to spy on my brother for you?” Sam asked flatly._

_“Oh God no,” Castiel assured him. “Not at all. I just…I’m desperate to fix this. I miss him. And I hate that he’s hurting. I thought you might…maybe if he…I don’t know. I thought you might have insight.”_

_“I wish I could help you Cas, I really do. But I haven’t talked to him. If he hasn’t told me he’s back in town, though, I’d hazard a guess he’s not telling anyone else either. He’s probably holed up in his house pretending he’s not there. I think you broke his fucking heart, dude. This isn’t going to be easy.”_

_“I know,” Cas told him. “I know. Listen. I’m on my way to the airport right now. I got the first flight to Sioux Falls I could get a seat on. Do you…if I show up, will he talk to me?”_

_“Cas, this is Dean we’re talking about. I couldn’t tell you what he’s going to do when he’s pissed off. He’s always been a bit of a wild card. He might bite your head off. He might not listen at all. He might give in and let you talk. I got nothing.”_

_“If you talk to him, will you please not tell him we spoke? I don’t necessarily want to surprise him, but I also don’t want him to decide in advance that he won’t let me in. It isn’t a perfect plan, but I have to try. I don’t know what else to do.”_

_Sam sighed into the phone. “If he knew you were coming, he’d definitely make sure he wasn’t there when you showed up. Look, I won’t call him to tell him about this, but if he calls me and for some reason asks if we talked, I’m not going to lie to him.”_

_“I understand,” Cas said, nodding though he knew Sam couldn’t see him through the phone. “Thank you, Sam.”_

_“Good luck,” Sam offered a little sadly, before hanging up the phone._

~*~

For all the times he’s visited Dean at home, Castiel has never actually had to drive there himself. Dean has always picked him up at the airport and driven them both home, then driven him back to the airport at the end of the trip. _It’s so I can see you right from the minute you get here and right until the minute you leave,_ Dean said when Cas suggested getting a rental car and saving him the drive time. _Don’t you dare rent a car._ This time, he has no other choice. If Dean won’t take his calls, Castiel will show up on his doorstep and make him listen.

Still, it means he needs to rely on his phone’s GPS navigation to find his way to Dean’s house. He knows the general direction, of course, but having never driven the route himself he doesn’t trust that he won’t get lost. He’s already unsettled enough by the entire situation. The last thing he needs is to end up on the wrong side of town trying to find his way back to Dean.

Dean’s car is in the driveway when he pulls up, its gleaming black form adorning the front of the house like a promise. If the Impala is here, Dean is here. If the Impala is here, Castiel has a chance. Knuckles white on the steering wheel of his rented sedan, Castiel stares out the windshield for long, long minutes, willing himself to go inside. He can’t seem to take the first step though. It’s too uncertain. He has no idea what to even say.

Finally, after lord only knows how long, it’s the porch light going on that spurs Castiel to action. It doesn’t mean anything, but it’s enough of a change to drag him out of the awful kind of thinking that’s been spinning inside his head. He doesn’t know what Dean will say and it doesn’t matter how long he sits here, that’s not going to change. He can spin out all the scenarios, imagine all the eventualities, and it still won’t mean a thing. The only thing in the entire world that Castiel can do right now is to march right up to that door and do everything in his power to make Dean see the truth.

His first few steps are hesitant, almost timid. Despite the summer heat there’s a few puddles on the ground, perhaps from some neighborhood kids’ water fight. His shoes splash though them, though he barely notices. Nothing is able to divert his attention away from his destination now. Before Castiel even realizes it, his feet have carried him along the driveway, across the path, and up to Dean’s front door. He knocks, no hesitation left in his movements, and tries to remind himself to breathe while he listens to the sound of Dean’s footsteps approaching from inside the house. When the door swings open, Castiel doesn’t wait for the shock to fade from Dean’s face before speaking.

“Dean, you have to let me explain,” he pleads. “I know what you saw and I don’t blame you for being mad, but it’s not at all what you think!” For a second, Cas thinks he’s made inroads as a look of consideration spreads across Dean’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, and almost immediately Castiel finds himself face to face with the outside of Dean’s front door.

There’s only a heartbeat of stunned silence before Castiel springs into action. He knew this wouldn’t be easy, but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge, especially not when the stakes are this high. He throws open the door and shoulders his way through, storm clouds in his eyes, and this time the shock on Dean’s face is short lived, replaced almost immediately with a look of pure defeat.

“Cas, don’t do this. Please.” The sorrow in his voice is so palpable it breaks Cas’s heart all over again.

“You don’t understand, Dean,” he implores again. “I want to fix this.”

Dean sighs, turning away. “I don’t see how. It feels pretty fucking broken to me. You never should have come out here. It would have been so much easier if you didn’t come out here.”

“No, it wouldn’t!” Cas snaps, unable to contain his frustration. “You think I’d just throw you away like that?”

“Apparently,” Dean mutters sadly. “You know, I really should have seen this coming. You’ve been totally off the radar since that stupid conference in Hawaii. I guess that’s what you do, huh? Jet off to paradise and find a new playmate? ”

“Will you please just listen to me?” This is not going well. It’s not going well at all.

“Why should I?” Dean shoots back, an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. “You didn’t want to tell me what was going on before, and you had plenty of opportunities. It’s my own fault really. I never should have let myself believe someone like you would ever be satisfied with a meathead like me.”

“But you’re not a…Dean how could you think that? How could you think you’re anything less than amazing?” Castiel hates hearing these words from Dean, hates that he could believe them. He vows to himself, if Dean will let him fix this, to spend every day for the rest of his life making sure Dean knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s worthy of love. He thought he’d been working at this before, but clearly, he needs to do better.

Dean rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Gee, I don’t know, maybe because you all but stopped calling me after you met _Balthazar,”_ he sneers derisively, heaping scorn onto the offending name. “Or maybe because you basically stopped making time to talk to me, and you didn’t even have the balls to tell me you weren’t interested anymore. You know the whole time we were together, right from the moment you found me in that grocery store, we never ended a visit without concrete plans for the next one? I always knew when I was going to see you next. Right up until that last trip, and then suddenly you’re too busy, your schedule is too chaotic, work is too uncertain, everything’s too something. You could have just told me to my face, right then and there, and saved us both a lot of wasted time. It’s bad enough I spent the last year trying to live up to what I thought you needed from me, but you couldn’t even be bothered to break up with me? That’s low, dude. I mean, you’re supposed to be better than me. Everyone else certainly thinks so. The fucking penguin at that damned restaurant sure did. Should have seen the way he looked at me when I showed up to surprise you. I thought I was doing something awesome. I thought I was being good to you. You’d think the least you could do is give me the dignity of telling me it’s over.”

“I don’t _want_ it to be over, though!” Cas argues, growing frustrated. “None of that is what really happened!”

“I don’t think I wanna hear it,” Dean shuts him down. “Not really interested in story time. All ends up in the same place anyway. Whether you got bored of me and went looking for someone to fill my place or you found someone new and realized they were better doesn’t really make a difference. I never should have let myself believe a fancy academic with a wall full of degrees could ever love a blue collar chump like me. I should never have looked for you after St. John.”

“If you would just let me tell you what really happened—“

“Why, Cas? It’s bad enough you gotta make me look like a fucking idiot, running around having the time of your life with some other guy, but now you’re going to, what, show up at my house so you can tell me all about it? You wanna rub my face in it? I get it. You’re happier now. You didn’t have to fly all the way out here to tell me that. It was pretty fucking obvious!” Castiel has never seen Dean like this, with his anger so intense it takes on a life of its own. It makes him feel so, so much worse, but at least this time Dean is speaking to him, even if it’s yelling.

“That’s not what this is!” Castiel insists, trying to keep his voice level. He’s angry too, so angry with Dean for believing the worst without ever letting Cas explain himself. Angry with Balthazar for being a drunken mess at the worst possible time, and with Alfie for being so damn helpful, and the universe for lining things up so horribly. More than anything though, he’s angry with himself.

“Then what? You leave a shirt behind last time you came to visit? ‘Cause I’m sure as fuck not taking you back, not after the shit you pulled. It’s my own fucking fault. I should have seen it coming. I mean, this was never going to last. You had your fun slumming it, and now you have some smart ass doctor that can keep up with you. So just go, get the fuck out of here.  Whatever you came here to say, I’m not interested in hearing it.”

“If you’d just let me—“

“No!” Dean interjects. “You don’t fucking get it! You lied to me! You fucked around behind my back and I had to find out because I showed up and found you with my replacement! You don’t get to—“

Cas has had enough. It’s not what he would have planned, if this was a conversation he actually planned at all, but there’s only one way he’s going to get Dean to let him speak long enough to explain the truth. He crashes into Dean with a fierce kiss, slamming him into the wall with probably more force than necessary, but it’s the only sure-fire way to silence Dean long enough to get a word in edgewise. He presses Dean against the wall with his body, pinning him in place with hands and hips and chest, and pours all the force of the words Dean won’t let him say into that single, powerful kiss. Dean resists at first but doesn’t push him away, standing stiff and rigid as Cas kisses him, but before long he’s melting under Cas’s touch, and then finally he’s kissing back, giving as good as he gets. His lips part to let Cas’s tongue lick into his mouth. It’s a powerful kiss, one charged with anger and fear and, Cas hopes, the full intensity of the love Cas feels, the love he’s trying to prove to Dean anew. When they break apart, Cas and Dean are both breathless, but Cas recovers himself much more quickly.

“Balthazar isn’t _your_ replacement, you perfect, beautiful, idiot. He’s _my_ replacement.” He lets the words sink in for a moment, but when it’s clear that Dean is too stunned by the kiss to shut Cas down again, he keeps going. “I never cheated on you. Not once, and I never would. I love you too much for that. I respect you too much for that. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been working at since the Western Apicultural Society conference, all the extra time I’ve been putting in, that’s for us.”

“Not calling me for weeks at a time, never having time to talk when I call you, that was for _us?”_ Dean demands, incredulous, finding his voice at last. “How the hell do you justify _that?_ ”

“Dean,” Cas tells him softly. “Ever since the conference in Hawaii, I’ve been working with Balthazar to try to convince Cornell to hire him on. He’s an expert in our shared field, he’s more than qualified to teach the classes I teach and fill my role at the university. My entire goal this whole time has been to have the university hire him as my replacement so I can resign, sell my house, and move to South Dakota to be with you.”

And for all the anger that has raged through Dean since Cas arrived, for all the fear and sorrow and pain that came pouring out in his words, for all he outright refused to even let Cas speak when he first got here, Dean looks at Cas with wonder. His mouth works silently to form questions he can’t yet find the words for, and while Castiel doesn’t believe for a second that he’s magically fixed everything with that admission, it’s something.

“Will you let me explain the whole thing?” Castiel asks carefully, quietly.

Dean nods.

It’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Discussion of infidelity, Dean Winchester's staggeringly low self esteem


	24. July 25 – 28, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean thought the pain of worrying he’d never see Cas again was the worst pain he’d ever experience. It changed him. It tempered him. 
> 
> This, though? This is a whole other level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

Time is a funny thing. Objectively, a minute is always the same length, a day is a day, and one week is exactly as long as any other. But people aren’t especially objective, and circumstance skews perception something fierce.

Take Dean, for example. Fourteen months ago, he experienced what was, at the time, the longest and the shortest five days of his life. Long because so much happened, because it was more than enough time to fundamentally change the landscape of not only his entire life, but of Dean himself. He came out of that week a different man than he went in. Short because it seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, there and then gone, magical and perfect and fleeting, over far too soon.

It’s got competition now.

Dean has lived entire lifetimes in the last seven days. Miserable ones, bleak ones. Lonely ones.

He supposes he should get used to that—the loneliness. It’s the new normal, after all. He’d always sort of thought the time between Cas’s visits was what real loneliness felt like. Even with the constant phone calls and text messages, he was in a perpetual state of yearning, always longing for the next moment they’d be in each other’s arms. Between that and the wretched time in between St. John and their bizarre and unlikely reunion in a grocery store a year ago, he really thought he _understood_ loneliness.

Turns out he was an amateur, but he’s made up for lost time. At least during those times—in between visits, and even when he didn’t know whether he’d ever see Cas again—he had hope. Now he’s just got himself, sitting confused and broken amongst the wreckage of those hopes.

So yeah, it’s been a long week. In the future, he will struggle to remember the details of it—even in the midst of it, it’s little more than an unending blur.

He doesn’t tell anybody that he’s home. He’s got two weeks off of work and he plans to take them all, to come to terms with what he’s lost, with what he maybe never really had to begin with. He wants to be able to shrug it off by the time he has to walk back in and face Benny and Garth and Bobby. At the very least, he wants to be able to _pretend_ like he’s shrugged it off. He can’t bear to see the pity hiding behind their compassion. He doesn’t want to hear the hushed voices, the offers of support, the meaningless platitudes about how many fish there are in the sea.

And maybe it’s not healthy, how he’s dealing. Hell, _probably_ it’s not healthy. Totally isolating himself from everyone he loves, dodging contact with all the people who care about him, compounding the inevitable sorrow and loneliness with complete solitude. He doesn’t really care though; it’s all he’s got.

He mostly cleaned out his fridge before he left—he was planning on being gone for the better part of two weeks, after all—but he’s got some frozen stuff and it’s not like he’s eating much anyway. He remembers to feed himself maybe once or twice a day, and he mostly picks at whatever he fixes. He avails himself of what was an unopened bottle of Jack more liberally than he does food, although he’s very careful not to truly overdo it. He’s not going to allow lost love to turn him into his father, no matter how great the temptation to bury himself in intoxication.

Even when he finally gives in and orders a pizza on Tuesday afternoon (the first time he’s exchanged a single word with another human being since Saturday, when he stopped off for gas for the last time on his way home), he only eats a single slice before stuffing the rest of it in the fridge.

Tuesday is especially tough, if only because Cas has finally started reaching out again.

It took him more than four days to realize that Dean hadn’t called or texted, and Dean guesses that says it all—not least of all, it tells Dean just exactly how entirely he’s been the only one even trying to keep this whole thing together over the past couple months. It makes more sense now why that is—Cas has been busy putting a whole new thing together, why would he waste his time and energy on something that had become obsolete?

Eventually, though, he must realize how long it’s been, because Dean’s phone finally rings early Tuesday evening. Dean has been waiting for this phone call. Dreading it, and in some small, twisted way, hoping for it—for some indication that Cas hasn’t completely forgotten him, hasn’t totally written him off just that easily.

He isn’t prepared for what it does to him, though, seeing that name pop up on the caller ID, knowing that Cas is sitting in his office or his house, maybe even next to _Balthazar,_ and trying to reach him. Dean doesn’t answer, of course—he has nothing to say to Cas, and he certainly doesn’t want to hear more evasions or outright lies—but Cas is undaunted. He calls again, almost instantly. This time Dean sends it to voicemail after only a couple rings. He doesn’t leave a voicemail, at least, and Dean’s grateful. He doesn’t know whether he would be able to hear Cas’s voice without melting down.

~*~

As it turns out, he isn’t able.

Cas does leave a voicemail later that night. Dean wishes he could bring himself to delete it unheard, but he just can’t. He listens to it, heart clenching, unable to wrap his mind around the sincerity in Cas’s voice. He sounds so genuine, the affection and hint of longing underlying his words so earnest.

Dean can’t handle the thought of Cas leaving his ringer on, hoping Dean calls, despite the fact that he’s probably crawling into bed next to _Dr. Davenport_ at this very moment.

It’s only with considerable self-control that Dean refrains from dashing his phone to pieces against the wall. Instead, he very carefully turns the phone off, sets it on the kitchen table, and walks away from it to take a shower. It’s been—hell, he’s not even sure when he showered last.

Ten minutes later finds him on his knees under the pounding water, wracked with the kind of full-body sobs he hasn’t allowed himself yet.

He thought he was resigned to it, thought he had accepted that it was over, that this wasn’t for him.

He was wrong.

~*~

He wakes up the next morning and reluctantly turns his phone back on. Leaving it off is too much of a red flag for anyone other than Cas who might try to call him. He can’t have Jess and Sam trying to call Cas if they get too worried about Dean, after all.

There’s a text message from Cas.

Received: _I miss you <3_

Dean turns off the ringer, sets the phone back on the kitchen table, and walks away from it.

He doesn’t look at it again until hours later, and by then he’s racked up another four missed calls from Cas, along with two voicemails (these he does delete unheard) and six text messages, which he also deletes.

If he were smart, he’d go into his phone’s settings and block Cas’s number altogether, but he can’t bring himself to take that final, definitive step. Not yet. Soon, he hopes, but he’s just not ready.

~*~

Thursday he orders Chinese food, trying to tempt himself into actually eating. He’s pretty sure he’s lost a couple pounds over the past few days, and he’s loath to let Cas have that much power over him. He’s not going to turn into some delicate flower and waste away. Unfortunately, this means he has to turn the ringer back on in case there’s a problem with his order.

Not ten minutes later, the phone rings. Dean’s halfway to the answer button when he really looks at the caller ID and realizes it’s Cas. Impulsively, he goes ahead and finishes the movement, answering the phone for the first time in days.

He doesn’t say anything, though. What the fuck could he possibly have to say?

The voice that comes across the other end of the line is worried—halfway to frantic, even.

“Dean? Are you there? I’ve been trying to call you all week. Is everything—“

Dean can’t—he can’t—he just can’t. He can’t hear the concern, feigned or not. “Stop calling,” he pleads, voice scarcely audible. “I can’t do this. I can’t believe I ever thought this was going to work. Do us both a favor, lose my number.”

“Dean I—“

The confusion in Cas’s voice sounds so sincere, but Dean’s not fooled and he’s not getting dragged into this. He disconnects the call before he can hear any more, then turns off the phone before Cas can call back.

He walks away from the phone again, and this time he leaves it off. He can’t do this with Cas. He _won’t_ do this.

~*~

As it turns out, he’s gonna have to do this, because the following day, Cas does the one thing Dean didn’t even consider.

He fucking shows up in Sioux Falls.

Dean doesn’t even know what possesses him to answer the door. He hasn’t ordered any food, he’s not expecting any guests. His plans for the evening are to sit around and wallow. It’s been an entire week since he showed up in Ithaca only to watch the best thing in his life disintegrate before his eyes. If ever there was a day for wallowing, this is it.

It’s nearly 7:30, and the house is just starting to darken with the oncoming sunset. He’s attempting to make a little more of an effort to act like a human being, so he actually goes around turning on some lights (and yeah, he’s done some sitting around in the dark in the last week). He’s just settled back on the couch when the knock comes at the door.

He considers ignoring it, but sheer force of habit drags him out of the living room and into the entranceway.

Whatever he was expecting, it’s not what he sees.

Cas stands on his doorstep, clothing wrinkled and hair mussed from what had to be a very long day of travel. Dean’s heart stutters to a halt in his chest, jaw dropping half an inch in astonishment. What the fuck is Cas doing _here?_ What is he thinking? Before Dean’s brain has even begun to process, Cas is speaking. “Dean, you have to let me explain. I know what you saw and I don’t blame you for being mad, but it’s not at all what you think!”

For half a second, Dean even considers letting him in, just to hear what the fuck he’s doing showing up here, just to hear what bullshit excuses he’s mustered, but the thought is discarded almost as soon as it appears.

He slams the door in Cas’s face, but before he has long enough to flip the deadbolt, Cas is throwing the door open and forcing his way through it. Dean falls back, shocked into retreat, and before he can regroup enough to physically force Cas right back out the door, it’s too late. He’s in, and it’s very clear from the set of his jaw and the determination in his narrowed eyes that he’s not going anywhere until he’s had his say.

Dean can’t look at his face. He can’t—he can’t _do this._ “Cas, don’t do this. Please.” The words fall without permission and Dean loathes himself for begging, for allowing Cas a look at just how profoundly Dean is broken.

“You don’t understand, Dean,” Cas insists, voice softening somewhat but no less insistent, “I want to fix this.”

Dean could almost laugh, if he wasn’t so close to breaking down into tears. He has to turn away, can’t look at Cas, at the lie that looks so much like love in his eyes. “I don’t see how. It feels pretty fucking broken to me. You never should have come out here. It would have been so much easier if you didn’t come out here.”

Cas advances a single step, and this time his voice hardens again, sharpening with impatience. “No, it wouldn’t! You think I’d just throw you away like that?”

Again, if it didn’t hurt so damn much, Dean would laugh. Yeah, he pretty much knows so. He tells Cas as much, but when Cas pleads for Dean to listen to him—that’s it. Finally the weight of sorrow inside him cracks just enough to let a flicker of anger come to life.

“Why should I?” He demands. “You didn’t want to tell me what was going on before, and you had plenty of opportunities. It’s my own fault really. I never should have let myself believe someone like you would ever be satisfied with a meathead like me.”

Cas goggles at him, astonishment written all over his face. “But you’re not a…Dean how could you think that? How could you think you’re anything less than amazing?”

The fury multiplies inside Dean. How _dare_ Cas do this? How dare he show up here and pretend like Dean actually means something to him? It’s cruel, even crueler than everything that’s come before it, and Dean lashes out. He doesn’t even register most of what he says, just knows that it’s all pouring out, finally, not just the last week but the frustration of the last two months, what it’s been like, and what it felt like to discover the truth, and when he finally winds to a halt, it’s with the thought that’s been plaguing him nonstop for days now. “You’d think the least you could do is give me the dignity of telling me it’s over,” he tells Cas bitterly.

“I don’t _want_ it to be over, though!” Cas hisses, his own temper flaring in response to Dean’s. “None of that is what really happened!”

Dean snorts, feeling not at all guilty when he shuts Cas right back down. Not even when he acknowledges that everything that came after St. John was ultimately just a mistake.

Cas keeps trying to break in, clearly wanting to explain himself further, but Dean is having none of it, his anger multiplying with every moment this man stands in front of him, this man who Dean broke all the rules for, this man who he altered himself so fundamentally for.

Dean doesn’t want his fucking explanations. He doesn’t want to hear Cas explain why it’s better this way, why Balthazar makes so much more sense for him. He already knows all of this, and the fact that Cas actually came all this way to tell him is absolutely _infuriating._

Unlike Dean, Cas is clearly trying to remain calm, but it’s a struggle, and when Dean jeers at him, it probably doesn’t help much. “Then what,” He sneers, “you leave a shirt behind last time you came to visit? Cause I’m sure as fuck not taking you back, not after the shit you pulled. It’s my own fucking fault. I should have seen it coming. I mean, this was never going to last. You had your fun slumming it, and now you have some smart ass doctor that can keep up with you. So just go, get the fuck out of here. Whatever you came here to say, I’m not interested in hearing it.”

Cas tries one more time. “If you’d just let me—“

“No!” Dean interrupts ruthlessly. Fuck Cas for not giving Dean the respect of letting him lick his wounds in peace. Fuck him for having to steamroll over this one last boundary. Fuck him for pushing and pushing and making Dean say it out loud, making him admit that he was never good enough. His voice is venomous when he goes on, and no wonder. “You don’t fucking get it!” He shouts, “you lied to me! You fucked around behind my back and I had to find out because I showed up and found you with my replacement! You don’t get to—“

He never has the chance to finish that thought. He has a split-second of warning, kind of, because he sees the moment when Cas’s expression changes minutely. It’s small and might have been easily missed by anyone who doesn’t know Cas the way Dean does—or at least the way Dean thought he did. Cas is done with being interrupted. He’s done letting Dean silence him, and he knows—has always known—exactly how to shut Dean up.

The all-too-familiar body collides with Dean _hard,_ bearing him backward into the wall as Cas’s lips slam down over his. Hands wrap tightly around his wrists, pinning them against the wall as surely as Cas’s body keeps the rest of Dean motionless.

Dean tries to resist. He really does. He won’t shove Cas away, he won’t throw a punch (even if he wants to) because he’s afraid if he starts, he won’t stop, and he can’t do that to Cas, no matter what he’s done to Dean. He stays still and unmoving as Cas’s lips move against his, but it’s no use. He’s conditioned, both body and mind, to submit to Cas. He’s primed for it, and even if his mind is pushing back, his body knows what it wants. Without ever deciding to do so, Dean finds that he has gone pliant against the hard press of Cas’s hands and body and lips, and then his mouth is moving as well, lips softening and parting to admit Cas’s searching tongue. And for all that it must be a lie, it _feels_ so real. He would swear he can feel Cas’s love, right along with terror and fury and frustration.

When Cas finally tears his lips away from Dean’s, Dean is left speechless.

It’s always been like this, since the very first time their lips collided in that tiny, storm-battered hut. Cas can disarm him, can silence him, can _own_ him entirely with nothing but the power of his kiss.

Dean is half afraid that Cas is going to press his advantage, is going to seal his lips against Dean’s once more until he loses himself entirely, until he gives in and lets Cas do whatever he wants, despite knowing that it’s all a lie—and he’s half afraid that Cas _won’t_ press his advantage. That this was some weird, fucked-up farewell kiss, and now he’s going to turn and walk out the door and Dean will never see him again.

As it turns out, he needn’t have feared either one, because what Cas actually does is speak.

“Balthazar isn’t _your_ replacement, you perfect, beautiful idiot. He’s _my_ replacement.” There are a few long moments of silence as Dean goggles at him, still unable to wrap his lips around words. Those fucking kisses should be illegal. “I never cheated on you. Not once, and I never would. I love you too much for that. I respect you too much for that. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been working at since the Western Apicultural Society conference, all the extra time I’ve been putting in, that’s for us.”

Dean finally finds his voice now and he puts all his skepticism into it, because that’s a hell of an angle Cas is pushing. “Not calling me for weeks at a time, never having time to talk when I call you, that was for _us?”_ He demands, disbelieving. “How the hell do you justify _that?_ ”

“Dean,” Cas tells him, a new gentleness in his voice, “ever since the conference in Hawaii, I’ve been working with Balthazar to try to convince Cornell to hire him on. He’s an expert in our shared field, he’s more than qualified to teach the classes I teach and fill my role at the university. My entire goal this whole time has been to have the university hire him as my replacement so I can resign, sell my house, and move to South Dakota to be with you.”

Wait, _what?_

Once again Dean is struck speechless. Cas was— _what?_ That doesn’t…that’s not…there’s no way that—is there? He stares at Cas, trying to wrap his brain around those words, trying to figure out what to say, what to ask, how to feel. No words manage to find their way out before Cas speaks again.

“Will you let me explain the whole thing?” He asks, voice low and soothing, as if he is trying to calm a wounded animal.

Still wordless, Dean nods.

“Come on,” Cas says, effortlessly seizing control in that way of his, “let’s sit.” Without seeking permission, he takes Dean’s hand and pulls him into the living room, sitting on the couch and tugging Dean down next to him. When Dean goes to take his hand back, Cas simply fails to relinquish it, and it’s easier just to give in—especially because of how _good_ it feels, those warm fingers wrapped strongly around his own. It feels familiar and welcome and entirely _right,_ and it’s not something Dean thought he would ever get to have again.

“Okay,” Dean says warily once they’re both seated, “tell me. Tell me _everything,_ this time.”

The guilt that flits across Cas’s face is there and gone quickly, but no less sincere for it. If what he’s saying is true, at least he seems to recognize that he’s made some really fucking big mistakes.

“I’ve known for a long time that this wasn’t working,” Cas says, and Dean blanches. Cas’s eyes widen almost comically as he realizes what he just said, and he hastens to clarify, “the distance, I mean! Being apart! I don’t mean that _we_ aren’t working. Shit. Look, can I start over?” He runs his free hand through his hair in frustration, making it stand up in about fourteen distinct directions, and Dean is hard-pressed not to laugh at how utterly at odds and ends he is. He looks every bit the part of the scattered professor. Dean’s pretty sure his lips are twitching a little bit as he nods at Cas to go on.

“I’ve known for a long time,” Cas tries again, “that being this far apart wasn’t gonna work forever. And I’ve known since the holidays that there was no way in hell I could ask you to leave Sioux Falls. You’re too—your roots go too deep. The people you love are all here. Your friends, Jess and Sam, Bobby, the shop. The house you put back together with your bare hands, for God’s sake. I couldn’t take that away from you. Only a monster would try.”

“You don’t think maybe that’s a decision that should’ve been left up to me?” Dean asks, not because he’s actually upset about this (he’s not, in fact he’s pretty fucking touched), but because he can already sense himself starting to melt and dammit, he’s not letting Cas off that easy.

“No,” Cas says definitively, “no way, because if I’d asked—if I had even so much as _hinted_ that I wanted you to move to Ithaca, you would have done it. It would’ve killed you, leaving behind everything and everyone here, but you’d have done it. You’re too relentlessly selfless not to. So I needed to make sure it wasn’t ever a decision you had to make.”

Dean is brought up short by this, mostly because Cas is right. Dean was already sort of halfway starting to assume that one day that’s what would happen. Of course, he would be the one to move. He wasn’t the one with a high-powered career that was location-dependent, and speaking of which…

“But what about what _you_ have in Ithaca?” He demands, “it’s not like you don’t have any roots, and—“

“Not like you do,” Cas interrupts. “I’ve got a job—a job that I love, yes, but it’s a _job—_ and colleagues that I get along well with. Nothing that can’t be recreated or rebuilt somewhere new.”

“In Sioux Falls?” Dean scoffs, “We don’t exactly have any bee labs here, Cas, and—“

“I thought you were gonna let me explain,” Cas says, a single brow quirking ironically, and Dean shuts his mouth, narrowing his eyes a little and motioning Cas to go on. “As I was saying,” Cas continues, “I’ve known the distance was too much, and that I couldn’t ask you to leave Sioux Falls. I hadn’t really made any decisions about what I was gonna do about it until the conference in Hawaii. Hannah said something during the weekend about how much more pull I would have with the department and in the field after being given such a prestigious opportunity, and it got me thinking. Then I met Balthazar—no, you promised I could talk,” he speaks hastily when Dean again opens his mouth. Sighing, Dean shuts it again. “Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself here, but I feel like before smoke starts coming out of your ears I should tell you that Alfie was wrong, Bal has _not_ been staying with me. Yes, the plumbing failed at the Statler, and yes, I told him he could have the spare room while they got it sorted out, but he was only there for two nights before he got a furnished apartment right off campus.”

This revelation—Dean feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his chest at the knowledge. Of everything, of all that he saw and heard, this had been the most damning. The thought that Cas had been sharing his home with another man for _two months_ without ever mentioning it to Dean? It felt like proof positive that Cas was cheating. If that’s not true—well, maybe the rest of it really isn’t either. Maybe Cas is telling the truth now. Maybe, just maybe, this can still be fixed.

“Okay,” he says again, “that’s—that helps. I’m listening.”

“I thought it might,” Cas says, sighing, “and for what it’s worth, I’d have murdered Alfie when he told me what he’d said to you if he wasn’t so relentlessly sweet. Anyway, I think he probably gave you the basics—Balthazar had been thinking about moving across the pond, but he needed a good position to do so. We got to talking on that volcano tour I went on, remember?” Dean nods wordlessly and Cas forges on, “and I started thinking. His work is in the same vein as mine—not the same, exactly, but similar enough that he could easily teach the same classes I do, take over the projects I’ve got in the works, and serve as advisor to my grad students. So I took his temperature on it—“ Dean raises a single brow and Cas snorts, “— _not_ the same way I took _your_ temperature, for crying out loud. Metaphorically. You’re not making this easy, you know.”

“Do you have any idea what the last week has—“

“Point taken,” Cas breaks in hastily, “make it as difficult as you need to. Anyway, I tested the waters to see how he might feel about coming to Cornell and taking over my position, if we could get the department and the university on board, and he thought it was a great idea. We got permission by the end of the weekend for him to come back to Ithaca for the remainder of his sabbatical, officially to shadow me and explore some of the research I’ve been doing. Unofficially, we got to work right away planting seeds with the right people. I finally talked to Hannah about wanting to be closer to you, and she said she had suspected it was coming sooner or later. If we hadn’t gotten her on board, I don’t think there’s any way we would’ve managed to get the university to move so fast on the appointment, but—anyway, that doesn’t matter. The point is, while we worked on getting the university to hire Bal, I was giving him crash courses in all the research I’ve been doing, what my grad students are doing, _and_ the courses I teach.”

“Is that why you’ve been too busy for me?” Dean asks, and honestly, he didn’t mean the phrasing to be hurtful. It’s just a statement of fact at this point. Cas has been too busy for him—and if the wording stings a little, well, having a boyfriend who couldn’t make time for him stung way more than a little. Having to hear about it won’t kill Cas (yeah, maybe Dean is starting to soften, but he still sure as hell hasn’t forgotten the last two months, let alone the last week).

Cas flinches visibly, closing his eyes for a second, fingers tightening around Dean’s. “Partly,” he says, “and yeah, that would’ve kept me really busy either way, but that was only one side of the equation.” Dean just raises both brows at him in indication to go on. “Getting someone who could take over for me on fairly short notice at Cornell was half of what I needed to do. The other half was figuring out what direction to take my career in, if I was going to be leaving my job just a year or two shy of being tenured.”

He pauses, searching Dean’s face, looking for any evidence that he’s making headway, that Dean believes him. As it turns out, Dean _does_ believe him—this is way too elaborate not to be real—but that doesn’t mean he has to make it easy. “And?” he asks simply.

“And—I got a book deal,” Cas says, the near-tremor in the words the only thing that betrays just how huge this news really is. “With Elsevier—they’re one of the biggest scientific publishing companies, and they want to publish me. They want me to write about colony collapse—my research, and speculation, and—I just got the news two days ago, they sent the contract along. It’s got everything I wanted. And a substantial advance. More than enough to offset what I’m losing in salary, especially since I’m—what?” He demands, as Dean screws up his face, trying to keep himself quiet.

“Nothing,” Dean says, shaking his head.

“No, it’s something,” Cas insists, “tell me.”

“This is huge and I’m really excited for you and ordinarily I’d hug the shit out of you but I’m still way too pissed, so I’m controlling myself, and would you stop looking at me like I’m adorable?” Dean blurts.

“I’ll do my best,” Cas says, lips twitching violently, “would you like me to go on, and we can pretend that you aren’t having any, er, hugging impulses?”

“Yes,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes slightly at Cas, who continues, still clearly trying not to laugh.

“You’re right,” Cas carries on, obviously feeling somewhat better about his chances given Dean’s admitted struggle to stay pissed after hearing this incredible news, “there aren’t any bee labs in Sioux Falls. But there _is_ one at the University of Missouri. It’s less than 250 miles away. The flight isn’t even an hour.” Dean’s brows shoot up so fast they must be damn near hovering _above_ his forehead. Cas nods in response to his unanswered question. “That piece of the puzzle isn’t quite complete yet, but I met the program director in Hawaii as well, and she was really enthusiastic about the possibility of me joining the team part time. The entomology department just lost one of their tenured professors—a melittologist—and they said if I’d agree to teach some of the intensive seminars they give in the summer, they might be able to work it so that I could spend a week there every month doing hands-on work in the lab, and remotely manage the grad students the rest of the time. If it works out, and I should know in the next few weeks, they think they can bring me on for the spring semester, starting next January—which also gives me enough time to get a good start on my book, and—“ Cas cuts himself off, the fierce determination he’s displayed till now fading into uncertainty.

“And?” Dean probes, voice a little gentler than it has been thus far. Jesus, Cas has been tying himself into knots working to uproot his entire life and find a way to build a new one—just to be closer to Dean? That’s—that’s incredible. It’s so completely the opposite of what Dean’s been thinking for the past week that he’s struggling to process it.

“—and to move. If…if you wanted. I could—I mean, if you’re still…I could get my own place, maybe, if it’s too much, too soon. I don’t want to push you. Especially since—“ He trails off again, shoulders hunching a little. He looks completely miserable, and it’s all Dean can do not to fling his arms around him.

“Especially since you fucked up so royally?” Dean supplies helpfully.

“Pretty much that,” Cas concludes, “look, my only defense is that I couldn’t bear to get your hopes up when I didn’t know if any of this would work out, at first. And then the closer it got, the more it seemed like I could make it happen, the more excited I got about being able to surprise you, to just…set it all down in front of you and show you what I did for you. For us. It was—it was fucking stupid, I know it was now. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve told you from the get go what I was working on. Hell, I should’ve asked if you even wanted me to move here, whether I was getting ahead of myself.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, neutrally, “you really should’ve.”

“But I didn’t. And _I_ knew everything I was doing was for us, so I guess somewhere along the way I forgot that _you_ didn’t know that—and how it must look.”

“So, that dinner—“

“We _were_ celebrating, Alfie got that right. Bal insisted. And he ordered champagne. I had a glass, he…took care of the rest of it. And he’s even more of a jackass than usual when he’s drunk. You haven’t actually met him, but trust me when I tell you he’s already a jackass under the best of circumstances. Maybe forty-five minutes after you left, I’m guessing, I was pouring him onto his couch to sleep it off, then heading home.”

“You’re telling me you and he—you’ve never—“

“Absolutely not,” Cas says, so fervently that Dean has to believe it. He sounds horrified at the very idea. _“Never._ How could you believe, even for a single fucking second, that I would ever want anybody but you? I’ve spent the past year telling you at every opportunity not just how perfect you are, but how perfect you are _for me_. How much I want you. How much I love you. That I have never wanted anything in this life more than I want you. The fact that you immediately—at the first sign of—I just can’t fucking _believe_ that you didn’t even—”

The intensity underlying Cas’s speech, the way he is struggling to even put into words his frustration, tells Dean that he’s not the only one who’s still pretty fucking pissed off. And Cas isn’t wrong, really. Over the months, after how hard he worked to ensure that Dean knew how loved he was—hadn’t he earned at least being confronted directly by Dean? Yeah, he probably had, and instead Dean let his pathologically low self-esteem take the wheel, putting both himself and Cas through an unnecessarily hellish week in the process.

So okay, they both fucked up.

But where does that leave them?

“Anyway,” Cas says, cutting himself off, “that’s not—that’s a conversation for another time. Now that you know everything, I’ve just got one last question for you.”

“Okay?” Dean says cautiously, not sure how concerned to be.

Cas reaches into the pocket of his rumpled suit jacket and digs around for a second, brows knitted into a scowl of concentration. After a moment, his face relaxes, and he fishes something out of his pocket.

It’s a single flower, mangled and crumpled, long-dried, crumbling at the edges. Dean recognizes it instantly as one of the remnants of a smashed bouquet, sacrificed on the altar of Cas’s klutziness and their shock at seeing one another again.

Holy fuck. Dean did actually dry the flowers from it, hanging them upside down by the washing machine and tucking them carefully into a box. He had no idea that Cas had stolen some of them and spirited them back to New York with him, but he must have done.

Dean knows what Cas is going to say before he does, and sure enough, he’s right.

“Bee mine?” Cas says, his tiny smile no less sheepish than it was the first time, just over a year ago.

Dean remembers his lines, too, but he’s not above a little bit of improvisation when the situation calls for it.

“I already am, you fucking idiot,” he says, and throws himself into Cas’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Discussion of infidelity, all the angst


	25. July 28, 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once the dust settles and Dean is back in Castiel’s arms, there’s nothing left to do but pick up the pieces. To do that, he’s going to have to take Dean apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Castiel_ **

“I already am, you fucking idiot,” Dean tells him, and from the second he crashes into Castiel’s arms, all the hesitation, the fear and the doubt and the resistance seem to melt away. Castiel is sure it’s still there. You don’t go through an ordeal like Dean went through—like Castiel put him through—and come out the other side with no lasting hang-ups. Castiel will be trying to repair that damage for a long time, that much he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt. Dean will need reassurance, and he’ll get it. He’ll get whatever he needs, whether he’s willing to ask for it out loud or not. Whatever it takes to get things back on track. Dean deserves that. He deserves all that and so much more. He deserves the world.

“I missed you so much.” Dean murmurs the words against his lips. His hands paw at Cas’s clothes, not even really in an attempt to undress him, just a desire to touch. “I thought I’d lost you, Cas.”

Cas holds him tight, pulls him closer. The heat of Dean’s body warms him right down to his very soul, in places he hadn’t even realized he was cold until the chill receded. Every kiss is a balm to his wounds, but it’s also a reminder of how long it’s been since he’s had this. Since he’s had Dean.

"I know," Cas whispers. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I never meant to..." He shakes his head, opting to kiss Dean with all the passion he can muster rather than finish the sentence. There’s no need to say it. Dean knows.

“I want you,” Dean groans, palming at Cas through his slacks. He’s half-hard and getting harder by the minute. It’s been what, two months since he’s felt the touch of Dean’s hands, and it’s a fair challenge to resist the temptation to just throw Dean down and ravage him right now. There’s little doubt that Dean would welcome it; he’s always so responsive to Castiel’s touch, but right now, Cas can’t help but hesitate. He almost ruined everything, all because he tried to barrel forward without getting Dean’s input. This isn’t the same thing, but it’s hard not to flinch in the face of that knowledge.

Dean seems to sense his hesitation. “I want you,” he repeats. “I _need_ you.” He’s practically climbing into Cas’s lap, kissing with the kind of ferocity that’s usually Castiel’s purview, the kind of fire that fuels him when Dean is bound and begging.

“Whatever you need,” Cas promises. “You’ve got it.” He cards his fingers through the short spikes of Dean’s hair, fingernails raking against his scalp. It’s hard to miss the way Dean shudders at his touch.

“Just you,” Dean insists. “I just need…fuck,” he groans, eyes flitting closed as Cas presses the heat of his mouth to Dean’s throat, sucking a purple mark onto his skin that will last for days. “How long do we have? When do you fly back?”

“I didn’t buy a return ticket yet,” Cas admits. “I…if you hadn’t let me in…” he trails off, not wanting to think too closely on what would have happened in that eventuality.

“So we’ve got a few days?” Dean asks, trying and completely failing to disguise the hope in his words.

“At the very least,” Cas assures him. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

“Dude,” Dean chokes back laughter. “The Stones?”

“What, you’re the only one allowed to make classic rock references?”

“I’m just impressed, is all.” Dean leans back in to initiate another kiss, swiping his tongue across Cas’s lower lip with a hand pressed to Cas’s cheek. Cas surges forward when their lips meet, taking the kiss deeper and bracing an arm around Dean’s waist. It’s not that he’s afraid Dean’s going to disappear on him, not in the slightest. But after the pain and uncertainty of the past couple of days, it’s hard not to cling to the feeling of Dean in his arms, the solid weight of his body reassuring Cas that he’s here, he’s with Cas, and there isn’t a power in the universe that can rip them apart.

Dean seems to feel the same thing. He clings to Cas as they kiss, a desperate edge to his grip, a hunger to his kisses that Cas can’t quite remember experiencing except for that first night in the shack on the beach. He’s in rare form tonight. Much of the time when they’re together, when they’re naked and sweaty and deep in the throes of passion, Dean is content to let Cas take the lead. He’s not passive, nor is he disinterested, not by a long shot, but he is so perfect in his submission that they tend to slip into those roles without discussion.

This isn’t that.

This is Dean asking for what he wants, not with words but with actions. This is Dean demanding Cas’s love and affection and lust. This is Dean, so desperate for the comfort of touch that even the dance of Cas’s fingertips over the skin of his biceps has Dean moaning, hungry for more.

Cas means to satisfy him. He means to give Dean everything he wants and more. It’s not an apology, not really. A physical act can’t fix what he did. But it’s a promise to connect, and it’s a catharsis they both sorely need.

“I wanna take you upstairs,” Cas murmurs darkly. “I wanna make you feel so good you forget why we were fighting.”

Dean sucks in a harsh breath, tensing in anticipation as Cas’s hand works its way inside his shirt to pinch at a nipple. “Pretty lofty goals,” Dean teases.

“I’m highly motivated,” Cas assures him, surging forward with a kiss that shows just how motivated he is. “Let me try?”

“You even gotta ask?” Dean murmurs. He’s on his feet in a matter of seconds, the wide grin on his face all the invitation Cas needs. He relinquishes his seat on the couch in favor of following Dean towards the staircase, amused at the way Dean takes the stairs two at a time, pausing only when he reaches the landing to make sure Cas is hot on his heels. Cas himself takes the climb at a more measured pace, not slow, but steady and determined. He fixes Dean with a look that makes his intentions abundantly clear, reveling in the tiny gasp that escapes Dean’s lips when that intense gaze settles on him. Before Dean can recover enough to continue his path towards the bedroom, Cas is on him, pinning him to the wall with hands above his head and mouth on his throat.

Cas nips at the fragile skin, soothing the marks left behind by his teeth with little licks, then moving on to another spot. Before long a gorgeous array of reds and pinks adorns Dean’s skin, made only that much brighter by the beautiful blush that’s rising to his cheeks. It will never cease to amaze Castiel how responsive this man is, how beautifully he reacts to Castiel’s touch. Dean’s mouth hangs open to emit delicious sounds, lovely little gasps and moans.

“Gorgeous,” Cas tells him earnestly. He means it for the sounds Dean makes, yes, but it’s so much more than that. He means it for the way Dean melts under his touch, becoming pliant and welcoming each and every press of Castiel’s fingertips, Castiel’s mouth, Castiel’s tongue. He means it for the way Dean’s eyelids flutter and his breath catches in his throat. He means it for the way Dean writhes and begs and moans when Castiel has him on edge, and the way he falls apart when he comes. He means it for the way Dean smiles at Castiel, the love that radiates out of him like the sun shining down on a perfect clear day, for the way that Cas knows he’d do absolutely anything in the world to make Dean happy.

Castiel shifts his grip, holding both of Dean’s wrists under one hand and moving the free one lower to slip under the hem of Dean’s shirt. His thigh presses between Dean’s legs, grinding against the hard line of his cock. Cas has barely even done anything, just kisses and touches and a little bit of restraint, but already, Dean’s breathing shallowly in anticipation. Castiel hadn’t quite forgotten how much he enjoys taking Dean apart like this, but the reminder is still nice.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, his voice breathy. Cas finds a nipple, pinching and twisting just shy of painfully, delighting in the way Dean’s back arches off the wall at his touch. “Gonna do this right here in the hallway?” he teases, the insufferable brat that he is. Cas has allowed him the use of one hand, but he doesn’t use it to try to escape. He just clings to Castiel’s arm, the tips of his fingers gripping tight enough that it almost registers as painful.

“I could, if you wanted,” Cas replies flatly. “Pin you to the wall and take my sweet time working you over, take you standing up. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Dean whimpers in response, but he’s got no words. “Maybe some other time. I want to look you in the eye while I take you apart, and I can’t do that if you’re face first into the wall. Go on, get moving,” Cas commands, pulling Dean away from the wall and pushing him towards the bedroom.

Dean isn’t expecting the well-placed smack that lands on his ass as he starts off towards the bedroom, but really, he should be. He should be well aware by now that Castiel never passes up an opportunity to spank him, even if he’s still fully clothed at the time. Dean jumps a little, barely containing the startled yelp that escapes his lungs as Cas connects. His glance back over his shoulder reveals Cas prowling after him, determination etched in every line of his face.

“You seem to have forgotten the claim I laid on that ass. I think it’s time I reminded you,” Cas growls. Dean narrows his eyes, an unspoken challenge hidden there, but he carries on towards the bedroom anyway. It’s a haphazard mess, laundry strewn in piles about the floor. When Castiel steps through the doorway, Dean adds his shirt to one of the piles, challenging Castiel to comment. Cas just raises his eyebrow. He knows what that does to Dean.

Dean doesn’t take the bait. “I wasn’t expecting company,” he says defiantly.

“I’m not interested in the state of your room,” Castiel tells him firmly. “I am a little curious why you’re still wearing pants though. Perhaps you should see to that before I see to it for you,” he suggests. Dean, surprisingly, does not jump to obey.

“I’m in no hurry,” Dean replies coolly. The message is clear. _I want you,_ Dean is saying, _but you’re going to have to work for it._ Very well. If Castiel has to earn Dean’s trust all over again, and with it, his submission, then so be it.

“I never said anything about a hurry,” Castiel replies, voice just as flat as Dean’s. “I have every intention of taking my time with you. A lesson like this isn’t taught quickly.” He stalks across the room, hands reaching out for Dean’s hips as soon as he’s in Dean’s space. Dean doesn’t stop Castiel from opening the fastenings on his jeans but neither does he assist. He stares Castiel down with haughty defiance, not even flinching when Cas pushes his jeans and boxers down around his thighs and immediately drops to his knees, taking Dean’s cock in hand. Dean’s mouth falls open just a little when Cas darts his tongue out to lap at the precome beading from the tip, and his hands twitch at his sides like he wants to grab fistfuls of Cas’s hair and pull him forward for more, but he somehow finds the strength of will to resist.

He’s silent as Castiel sets to work with every trick he knows, lavishing attention on Dean’s dick until it’s hard as can be, slick with precome and saliva. He suckles the tip and swirls his tongue then surges forward to take Dean as deep as he can, holding him there until Dean lets out the smallest of moans, so quiet it’s barely audible. Dean might be playing hard to get right now, but Castiel still knows what makes him tick.

He has a little bit more difficulty remaining quiet when Castiel pulls off his cock altogether, opting to stroke slow and loose with one hand as he moves his mouth lower to drag his tongue over Dean’s balls. Dean gasps softly, one hand stroking through Castiel’s hair in encouragement, and it’s not a victory but it isn’t defeat either, so Castiel keeps going. He presses hot kisses to the underside of Dean’s cock and all over his balls, and when he’s sure Dean is accustomed to the rhythm and the level of sensation, he moves his mouth over to Dean’s inner thigh where he’s sensitive enough to border on ticklish. A few kisses there are usually enough to get Dean squirming, but now when he bites down, sucking a purple bruise into the skin and soothing it with his tongue, Dean makes the most noise he’s made yet. It’s a heady kind of moan, deeply satisfying to Castiel’s ear. The pleasure-pain mix always gets the best sounds out of Dean.

Once he’s coaxed Dean to break his silence, Castiel glances up with a smirk on his face, staring just until Dean opens his mouth to comment before taking Dean’s dick into his mouth again. He’s relentless now, no interest in teasing, and Dean responds beautifully. He doesn’t suppress the gorgeous sounds that spill from his lips as Castiel works, doesn’t struggle to keep his hips still, doesn’t resist the urge to grip Castiel’s hair. Cas has never been one to get off on the pain himself, but the tight hold Dean has on his hair grounds him and he can’t deny that he loves how enthusiastic Dean gets about it. His hips rock forward, thrusting his cock further into Cas’s mouth, and the hold he has on Cas’s hair means he’s… _encouraged_ to take Dean deeper still. Cas, never one to back down from a challenge, lets Dean fuck his mouth to his heart’s content. He slackens his jaw and fondles Dean’s balls and breathes through his nose, and maybe this is penance for everything he put Dean through but it feels like a victory because Dean has decided what he wants and for now, he’s perfectly content to just _take_ it.

“Jesus Christ Cas, your mouth,” Dean groans. His legs are starting to shake, his grip in Cas’s hair tightening in desperation. Cas knows from experience when Dean is getting close, but today, he’s going to push the envelope. He ignores all the warning signs and, because he’s perfectly capable of being cruel when the situation calls for it, slips a single finger between Dean’s cheeks to tease at his hole at the same time he takes Dean as deep as he can and just stays there. Dean draws a shuddering breath and loosens his grip on Cas’s hair, moving to stroke the pad of his thumb along Cas’s lower lip, stretched tight around the thick shaft of his cock. It’s the gentlest of touches. Cas can feel Dean’s eyes on him as they sit at stalemate. Cas won’t back off until Dean says uncle while Dean is seemingly determined to prove he can take whatever Cas has to offer, and no one wants to be the one to admit defeat.

Cas though, has one more trick up his sleeve, and this is the perfect time to employ it. He works just the tip of his finger into the tight furl of Dean’s hole, not willing to subject Dean to any more intrusion than that without lube, and swallows, constricting his throat around the head of Dean’s cock. There’s a brief moment where it looks like Dean’s going to call his bluff, but then he’s letting go of Cas’s hair entirely.

“Cas, I’m gonna—” he breathes. It’s all Cas needs to hear. He backs off of Dean’s dick, giving the tip one last teasing kitten lick, and sits back on his heels to grin deviously up at his boyfriend, lips red and slick with spit. “You’re a dick,” Dean accuses, a hint of mirthful laughter threatening to follow the words.

“What,” Cas replies innocently, rising to his feet to crowd back into Dean’s space. “You aren’t having fun?” He strips out of his shirt, shoulders flexing as he tosses it in the general direction of the pile Dean tossed his own shirt in, and drags the fingers of one hand through the horrible mess that is his hair.

“Never said I wasn’t,” Dean corrects him. “But you’re trying to bait me.”

Cas gasps, feigning offense. “I would _never_.”  He steps in closer, planting his hands on Dean’s hips. “Is it working?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe.” He kisses Cas fiercely, passionately, tongue delving in to taste Cas’s mouth. Cas lets him take the lead for a moment, humming softly against Dean’s lips. As soon as Dean come up for air, he seizes the moment.

“You really should have stepped out of your pants when you had the time,” Cas teases. “Now you’re going to be totally trapped when I do this.” And before Dean can reply, Cas uses the grip he’s got on Dean’s hips to shove him backwards, toppling Dean onto the bed with a bounce and a grunt. He climbs on after Dean immediately, straddling his legs and pinning his arms above his head.

“It’s really too bad this wasn’t a planned visit. I left home in such a hurry I didn’t even think to bring any of my ropes, and I’d really like to keep you right here for a while.” Cas leans down for a kiss but as soon as Dean tries to deepen it, he pulls back, nipping at Dean’s lip. “But I suppose I’ll just have to be content with holding you here myself.”

Dean lets out an exaggerated sigh when Cas’s lips find his throat, tracing the tip of his tongue around the mark he left earlier. “If you _really_ want to tie me up, I suppose you could always use the ropes in my duffle bag.” Cas moves back into Dean’s field of view and raises an eyebrow in question. “I uh…I may have done a little shopping before I drove out to Ithaca,” he explains.

Cas can practically feel the sparkle in his eye as he throws his head back to laugh in dark delight. “Oh you _are_ a good boy, aren’t you?”

“It’s just good manners,” Dean teases. “You show up unannounced at someone’s house, it’s only polite to bring a gift.”

Cas lets out a throaty laugh, climbing off the bed in search of this duffle bag. “You must think me so rude, then. I arrived without any warning, and I bring you no such gift. Ah ah ah, don’t you dare move.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me,” Dean concedes, obediently holding his arms above his head. “In the closet. I just tossed it in there when I got home.”

Cas finds the bag on the floor of the closet, its zipper open. It doesn’t appear that Dean’s made any effort to unpack the thing. There are still jeans and t-shirts and socks and underwear in the bag but underneath them he finds a few lengths of hempen rope, neatly coiled and tied. “You did go shopping, didn’t you?” Cas notes, very pleased indeed. “Oh this is excellent. We’re definitely gonna use this.”

“Yeah I thought you might like that,” Dean answers meekly. “I’m going to regret buying that, aren’t I?”

“What, this?” Cas strides back towards the bed, holding in his hand the vibrating cock ring he found in the bag. “Certainly not. You’re going to love it. I’ll make absolutely sure of it.” He tosses it on the nightstand, along with a pair of safety scissors that Dean had the foresight to procure and a bottle of lube they’re obviously going to need, then applies the greater part of his attention to the ropes, uncoiling one of the lengths and checking it for any fraying before draping it across Dean’s torso. For this, he wants to be just as naked as Dean is. His pants fall to the floor as he releases the button, and he pushes his shorts down slowly, knowing Dean is watching his every move with rapt attention. Then he climbs back onto the bed, straddling Dean’s hips once more, and sets to work with the ropes.

Castiel never likes to make quick work of tying someone up. He applies workmanlike dedication to the knots themselves, of course, but there’s so much more showmanship to it than that. Always, he keeps a point of contact, trailing his fingertips or the tail of the rope along Dean’s skin. He pauses to inspect his work more to create anticipation than to assess the quality of the knots. And once he has a tidy cuff formed around Dean’s right wrist, he crawls just a little higher up the bed to straddle Dean’s chest, ostensibly so he can reach to tie the tail of the rope to the bedframe. What it really accomplishes, though, is to put the head of his cock just out of reach of Dean’s mouth.

Because Cas is not done making this difficult for Dean. Not by a long shot.

“You’re an ass,” Dean complains, craning his neck in a move they both know is futile.

“I’m no such thing. I’m about to be very, very nice to you.” Cas continues his work, forming an identical cuff on Dean’s left wrist. He takes even longer with this one, caressing the inside of Dean’s wrist now that he’s restrained on the other side. Once it’s secure, he leans over to fasten it to the bedpost, and then he just sits there, straddling Dean’s chest.

“I like you like this,” he tells Dean. “You look good with those ropes around your arms. We should try some more complicated ties some time. Maybe a chest harness? I could frog-tie you.”

“Shit,” Dean curses, exhaling sharply. “That sounds fucking awesome.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Cas tells him dismissively. “Right now…” he trails off, reaching for the package containing the vibrating cock ring and its associated remote control. Dean squirms as he opens the packaging, and he doesn’t exactly sit still while Cas moves himself down the bed to fit it around the base of Dean’s cock, either. Once it’s snugly in place, Cas picks up the remote and turns it onto the lowest setting, watching with barely contained delight as Dean’s cock twitches.

“You can come whenever you want,” he informs Dean. “But I’m not going to stop until I’m through with you, so it doesn’t end when you come.” A high pitched whine is the only response he gets.

Cas starts off slow and teasing. It doesn’t matter that Dean’s already hard. He means to draw this out as long as possible. If there’s any doubt left in Dean’s mind about how desirable he is to Castiel, Cas means to obliterate it. And really, after the nightmare that the last week has been for both of them, they could use a night like this.

Cas slots one knee between Dean’s splayed legs, letting his thigh graze against Dean’s dick as he leans himself over to take a nipple between his teeth. His arms bracket Dean’s chest, keeping himself just shy of draped over the beautifully toned body tied to the bed, but he’s certainly making contact where it counts. Castiel nips at Dean, then soothes with his tongue, then draws the nipple into his mouth to let the wet heat entice Dean to moan softly. They’ve been together an entire year now, not including those five exciting days when they both believed it could only ever be just a fling, and even though they haven’t spent as much time in each other’s company as they’d like, Castiel has had ample time to learn what makes Dean tick. He knows what Dean likes. He knows what Dean will put up with if Cas asks but doesn’t really enjoy (and incidentally, Castiel doesn’t really enjoy those things very much anymore either). But most importantly, he knows the most effective ways to knock down all of Dean’s walls, destroy his self-control, and take him apart piece by piece. Dean would never admit it if asked, or maybe he’s not even consciously aware that it’s true, but this? The nipple play? That’s where it starts.

By the time he’s worried one nipple to a red and angry nub, Dean’s soft hums of pleasure have decayed to harsh gasps and choked moans. Cas is careful to keep his thigh from pressing too close between Dean’s legs. Only a hint of friction, that’s what Dean gets now. Just enough to tease. Just enough, in combination with the low buzzing of the cock ring, to set his mind to thinking of how delicious release will be, but not enough to get him there. Not yet.

And then Castiel starts in on the other nipple, his teeth harsh and his lips gentle. It’s too much and not enough, it’s pain and pleasure, and it’s everything Dean needs.

“I don’t understand,” Castiel says conversationally, drawing away just enough that his breath ghosts across the poor nipple he’s left in his wake, “how you could possibly believe there is anyone on this planet I would choose over you.”

“We really gonna do this right now?” Dean groans, arching his back as Cas answers him with the flat of his tongue dragging roughly over one nipple. “‘Cause I think we already talked about how that came to pass.”

Cas shakes his head sharply. “I understand perfectly what led you to consider the possibility.” He swirls his tongue around the nipple again as if to make a point. “I just don’t see how you could _believe_ it.”

“Well I—” Dean begins, but Cas cuts him off.

“Shhhh,” he soothes. “No talking.” A single finger raised to Dean’s lips effectively silences him, though Dean opens up enough to draw Cas’s finger into his mouth. “See? Look at you. You’re amazing. So responsive.” Dean makes a small sound of protest, which Cas pointedly ignores. “And you make such pretty noises. I’d never be able to give all this up. Never.”

While those words sink in, Cas slips his finger out from between Dean’s lips, opting instead to let his tongue explore Dean’s mouth. Dean leans into the kiss as much as his restraints will allow, tugging futilely in an attempt to get his hands on Cas, even just a little. Rather than chastising him for plotting an escape that won’t come, Cas opts to let him struggle. The drag of the hemp across his skin is just another level of sensation to drive Dean higher and the ropes are secure enough that he’s not going anywhere.

He kisses Dean until they’re both breathless, only coming up for air when it seems absolutely necessary. Cas lets Dean get a few good breaths in, peppering kisses up and down his throat in the meantime, then dives back in to reclaim that perfect mouth once more.

Castiel knows he’s accomplished his goal when Dean stops struggling against his bindings and submits, not completely but enough. Dean is relaxed and pliant, seemingly content with his current lot in life. Careful not to give away his intentions, Cas reaches a hand out, still kissing Dean for all he’s worth, and closes his fingers around the remote for the cock ring. Dean doesn’t even see it coming, and the second Cas hits the button to jump the speed up to the second of three levels he moans against Castiel’s mouth, tensing against his ropes and arching his back at the shock of pleasure running through his body.

Backing away to steal a delighted glance at the startled look on Dean’s face, Cas quirks the corner of his mouth up in a devious little half-smile, challenging Dean to breathe a word of protest. No such protest comes, just pretty little moans drifting from Dean’s lips while the toy buzzes around the base of his cock. Satisfied, Cas dips his head down to suck a mark onto Dean’s throat, a twin to the one he left earlier, and begins the slowest descent he can manage. The kisses he leaves across Dean’s collarbone drag on for long minutes, and Dean doesn’t say a word. Cas relearns every inch of Dean’s chest, and there’s no protest at all. By the time he’s tracing his tongue along the nicely defined lines of Dean’s abdominal muscles though, Dean is writhing beneath him, squirming to get away and arching his back to get closer, clearly at war as to which he wants more.

The path Castiel takes brings his mouth lower and lower, close enough that Dean could be forgiven for thinking he’s going to end up with his cock back in Castiel’s mouth, but that’s not where he’s headed. Instead, his lips find the inside of Dean’s thigh and he kisses softly against the tender skin, teasing Dean to squirm with touches so soft they almost tickle. Gradually, he becomes rougher, nipping with his teeth, fingernails dragging over skin, and when Dean starts to buck and huff in pleasure, Castiel bites down once more, laying claim to Dean with a mark that no one else will ever see.

“Mine,” Cas murmurs against Dean’s skin.

“Yeah Cas,” Dean agrees, almost as if by rote. “Yours.” He pulls against his ropes, though he must know it’s futile.

“Oh no,” Cas warns, shaking his head softly. “It’s not enough to say it. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll _believe_ it. I never want you to doubt it again. You’re mine, body and soul, just as much as I’m yours.” He licks a wet stripe up the underside of Dean’s cock as if to forestall further conversation, then goes right back to applying tender attention to the insides of Dean’s thighs.

Dean isn’t making enough noise, Cas decides. He’s not quiet, not by a long shot, but Cas wants more. He wants everything. He wants sweet whimpers and deep, throaty groans. He wants choked out moaning broken only by the harsh gasp for breath. He wants a litany of curses interspersed with the strangled wails Cas knows he can pull from Dean given the right motivation. He wants Dean to sing for him, and there are no lengths he won’t go to in order to get what he wants.

Sitting back on his heels, Cas hooks an arm under one of Dean’s legs and hefts it up, exposing the luscious curve of Dean’s backside and opening him up for further attention. Dean probably knows what’s coming, since the click of the lube bottle’s cap is clearly audible in the relative quiet of the room, but he still flinches at the first cool touch of Cas’s finger against the tight pucker of his hole.

“Stay still,” Cas chastises. It’s a quick bit of work to shift Dean’s leg to drape over Cas’s shoulder, freeing his other hand up to land three sharp smacks to Dean’s ass in warning. “If I have to tell you again it’ll hurt much more.” It’s probably not a very effective threat. Dean’s proven on more than one occasion that he can handle quite a bit of punishment from Castiel’s hands, and he does tend to revel in the pain. Perhaps it’ll be just as fun if Dean can’t keep still. Only time will tell.

Warning delivered, Castiel circles his slick finger around the tight pucker of Dean’s hole, eliciting a quiet whimper. Dean manages to keep himself still though, and more’s the pity, because now that Castiel’s laid down a threat it occurs to him that Dean might just play the part of good boy and obey. Well, no matter. Either Dean will do as he’s told and stay still, and Cas will get to have fun making him struggle to hold steady, or he’ll break and squirm, and Cas will take it out on his ass. Either way, Castiel wins.

The first slow push of a single digit gets Dean groaning, revelling in the delicious stretch. It’s not much, nowhere near the girth of the cock Cas means to give him eventually, but gods does he sound good. It doesn’t take long for Dean to relax around him, opening up to allow Castiel to slide his finger in and out without resistance. Usually, he’d go right for a second digit as soon as Dean could take it, excited about the prospect of replacing his fingers with his dick and really getting things going. And he could totally go that route. It wouldn’t cost him anything. But oh, how much more fun it will be to drag things out.

And drag he does.

It’s a tease, truly. Just a single finger and such slow touches, it’s nowhere near enough friction to get Dean anywhere good. What it does serve to accomplish is to frustrate the poor boy, and after a time it becomes obvious that Dean is struggling to keep still. He’s having an even harder time keeping quiet, truth be told, but Castiel doesn’t mind that. How could he, when Dean sounds so absolutely marvelous as he starts to come apart at the seams?

Finally, it gets to be too much (or, Castiel supposes, not enough), and Dean fails to resist the temptation to push his hips back, chasing something a little bit more satisfying. A wicked grin spreads over Castiel’s face, one Dean can’t quite see because his own leg is blocking his line of sight. Still, he knows Castiel well enough to know what’s coming regardless.

A flurry of sharp smacks rings out through the room, pinking Dean’s ass and causing him to yelp. He tenses against his bindings, legs flexing as he tries in vain to shield his ass from the blows that Cas is still raining down. It doesn’t help.

“I told you to keep still,” Cas reprimands.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” Dean gripes, tugging at the ropes once more. If Cas didn’t know better, he’d say Dean was sulking.

“Maybe I am,” he replies. “That’s my purview. I laid claim to this ass, remember?” Fingernails drag across the red skin of Dean’s butt, leaving little white lines in their wake. “I’ll do whatever I please, for as long as I please.”

“Fuck,” Dean groans, more complaint than anything else. “Just get your dick in me already!”

Cas smacks him again, just once, a firm admonishment for his attitude. “No.” He leans in close, laving his tongue over that sensitive spot just behind Dean’s balls for just long enough to elicit a needy whimper. “Perhaps an exercise in patience will help you remember that I have no intention of giving you up, now or ever. Perhaps if I spend all night lavishing attention on you before I finally take my pleasure from your pretty little ass, you will realize how much I adore you.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for that, neither acceptance or challenge, so Castiel resumes his task, pushing and twisting his single digit into Dean’s ass without any increase in speed. He wants to give Dean more, he truly does, but to give in now would be to give Dean the impression that he made it happen, and then he’ll push the limits again. So he waits, taunting and teasing, until he’s sure Dean has resigned himself to the slow torture. Then, with no warning at all, he slips a second finger in beside the first, no break in his pace, and watches with delight as Dean’s hips buck up in pleasure at the renewed stretch.

“I,” –smack- “told,” –smack- “you,” –smack- “to,” –smack- “stay,” –smack- “still.” Castiel chastises calmly, punctuating his words with firm slaps to Dean’s already red ass.

“You’re not making it easy,” Dean argues. “In fact, if I had to guess, I’d say you’re making it hard on purpose.”

Castiel laughs, wrapping the fingers of his free hand around Dean’s cock and giving it a squeeze. “Excellent choice of words, my love. I certainly am. But you’re a good boy, I know you are, so you’re going to do as you’re told, because then I’ll _have_ to reward you.”

“Ahhhh!” Dean cries out, unable to restrain himself in light of the additional point of contact. His dick is steadily leaking precome, the vibrating ring providing enough stimulation to keep him excited regardless of his complaints. Castiel swipes his thumb through the mess, bringing it up to his mouth to slowly lick it from the digit, making sure Dean can see him clearly while he does. “Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean breathes. “You know, a reward isn’t a very good motivator if I don’t know what the reward is.”

Cas tilts his head to the side, considering for a moment. “That’s true. Very well. If you can be a good boy and stay still for me, I promise, you will end this night with my dick in your ass. How’s that for a reward?”

Dean draws a shuddering breath, fingers flexing as he grips the ropes that hold him fast. “Yeah,” he groans out low. “Yeah I can do that.”

“Good boy,” Cas praises, and renews his assault. Dean, to his credit, does much, much better at keeping still this time around, even though there are now two fingers in his ass, and Cas is not kind. He twists and scissors his fingers, stretching Dean and preparing him for the inevitable reward. He rubs a knuckle against Dean’s slick rim while his fingers are buried deep, and when Dean is being exceptionally well behaved, leans down to run the point of his tongue up the length of Dean’s shaft, just to make him whine. He’s so compliant, so good now that he knows what awaits him.

Cas can’t help it. He needs to test the limits of that good behavior.

He’s been intentionally avoiding Dean’s prostate thus far. It seemed a kindness at the time. It’s so much harder to keep still with that kind of stimulation going on, even without the torment of the cock ring buzzing away. Throwing all that caution to the wind, Castiel now seeks it out intentionally, full of cruel purpose, and rubs the pad of his finger just firmly enough against that bundle of nerves to send sparks through Dean’s veins. If the way Dean cries out is any indication, Castiel has hit his mark, but through a locking of muscles and sheer strength of will, Dean manages to keep relatively stationary. It’s quite the accomplishment. If their roles were reversed, Castiel would be hard pressed to do the same.

Pleased with the results, Castiel sees no reason to let up. He presses a little more firmly, moving his fingers in tiny circles over Dean’s prostate, humming happily at the sight of Dean’s arms and gorgeous shoulders drawing tight with the effort he’s expending to keep himself still. He’s really such a good boy. He deserves something good.

“Cas!” Dean cries out. “I’m gonna come! Oh fuck, fuck, I’m gonna…”

“It’s okay,” Cas reminds him. “You can come. Go ahead babe. I got you.”  That’s pretty much all it takes. Dean lets go of the control he’s been clinging to and almost as soon as the words are out of Castiel’s mouth, Dean’s dick twitches and spurts out thick ropes of come, painting his belly in splatters of white. All the while Dean moans in pleasure, the sounds of his orgasm pure music to Castiel’s ears. Cas doesn’t cease his attentions until Dean stops coming.

“Jesus Cas,” Dean pants, his breathing still labored. “That was fucking intense.”

“Was?” Castiel repeats. “Past tense? Oh lord no. We’re just getting started.” Dean laughs nervously, but he’s still tied down, so there’s nothing he can do but lie there and watch as Castiel slips his fingers free, pulling a condom from the nightstand and rolling it onto his cock. He may have neglected his own physical pleasure so far this evening, but the sights and sounds of Dean spread out like this are more than enough to ensure that Castiel is ready for what comes next. There’s next to no preamble as he lines his cock up with Dean’s slick hole, pressing in oh so very slowly until his hips are pressed close to Dean’s ass, still giving off heat from the spanks he laid there.

“I promised, remember?” Cas draws back so far that he nearly slips out, then drives forward again in a long, slow push, revelling in the absolutely debauched noise it pulls from Dean. “And you were so good for me. You’ve earned your reward.”

This is not a race. Castiel is not going to surge forward, bury himself to the hilt and just _take._ No, Dean may have spent himself messily after all the attention Castiel has paid him so far this evening, but his role in this is far from over. If Cas is diligent, Dean might have another orgasm in him.  It’ll be hard fought and harder won, but so very satisfying for the both of them if it can be achieved. And even if not, let it never be said that Castiel is anything less than a caring, giving soul. There’s much pleasure for Dean to have even if it doesn’t culminate in another orgasm, and Castiel is exceptionally well equipped to see that he receives it.

Castiel’s thrusts are slow and deep. The drag of his cock stretching Dean open is so beautifully tantalizing he can hardly bear it, but slow it must be. This isn’t just sex, and it’s not just bondage. This is worship. Every touch is a prayer, calling out his love and adoration for Dean. There aren’t words for it, but maybe his actions can show the truth.

Dean moans softly at first. He’s still coming down from the haze of orgasm, his limbs leaden and his arms still bound besides, so for some time, he can do nothing but lay there and take it. That’s all he has to do, though. Castiel has him. Castiel will take care of him. Dean’s arms stretch out to either side and his head lolls, his legs only prevented from flopping out to either side by the grip Cas has on them. Cas fucks into him, smooth and reverent, and Dean doesn’t have anything to give in reply except quiet moans, fluttering eyelashes, and his lower lip tugged between his teeth to show that he’s enjoying his treatment.

After a while, not too long but not immediately either, Dean gets louder. His delicate moans, given up more on instinct than intent, grow louder and more forceful. Cas shifts his hips, changing the angle a little, and Dean groans his name, still quiet, stirring something deep inside Castiel that he very, very much enjoys. He wants Dean. True, he always wants Dean. Sometimes they’re states away and he just wants to be near Dean. Sometimes it’s a gentle thing, like when Dean pours him a perfect mug of coffee without even asking, and Castiel wants to cover him in sweet kisses. Sometimes he murmurs Castiel’s name in his sleep, and Castiel wants to pull him closer and rock their bodies together because there is love between them and sometimes it calls for making love. And sometimes, like now, Dean is just so absolutely filthy-hot that want ceases to be a strong enough word. He’s absolutely debauched, a sheen of sweat on his gorgeous features, eyes barely open. His lips part just slightly, but it’s enough to let slip moans and grunts and half-formed words.

It’s unexpected, when Dean rocks his hips up, getting back into the game in an attempt to take Cas deeper. And he’s past the point of chastising Dean for not staying still, well past the point of wanting to deny Dean anything, so instead of a firm slap and a firmer word, Castiel pushes back harder, meeting Dean’s thrusts with the superior power of his hips. He’s rewarded with a sharp cry from Dean’s now wide open mouth, and the beautiful image of Dean arching off the bed as he throws his head back in sheer ecstasy.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, sounding absolutely wrecked. “God, yeah, just like that Cas. Feels so fuckin’ good.” There was never a doubt in Castiel’s mind. He knows how to read Dean well enough to tell that he’s riding high, loving every second of this. Cas will never tire of hearing it, though. He will never tire of making Dean feel good and he will never tire of hearing Dean say it.

Castiel’s hips want to move faster, and he doesn’t try to stop them. His thrusts become quicker, shallower, harder, but Dean likes it hard and fast, so that can hardly be considered a problem. Dean starts to whine, this long, high note that’s only punctuated by the jostling of each thrust. It sounds so good, so terribly sexy, and Castiel wants nothing more than to give Dean a whole list of reasons to keep making those sounds. In order to do that, though, he needs a better angle, a better grip with which to pull Dean onto his cock, and there’s really only one way he’s going to accomplish that.

Without even pulling his dick out of Dean’s slick hole, Castiel reaches over to the nightstand. The safety scissors are officially just there in case something goes wrong, in case Dean calls his safeword or it appears that one of the knots is causing him harm or someone gets injured. But Castiel lacks patience, so he’s not going to waste time untying his careful knots. Instead, he leaves the cuffs fastened to Dean’s wrists and neatly snips through the ropes close to the bedframe, leaving as much of the length intact as he can manage given the circumstances.

“Hey,” Dean gripes, his voice still thick and rough. “I just bought those ropes!”

“I’ll buy you new ones,” Cas promises, tossing the scissors back on the nightstand. Only now does he let his cock slide out, and Dean only has a moment to lament the loss before Cas is flipping him over, situating himself between Dean’s thighs and pushing his ass up high, urging Dean to get his knees under him for support. Then he’s sliding home again, his cock thick and hard between Dean’s cheeks, and yes, this is exactly where the evening should end. Dean on his knees, taking Cas’s cock like he was made for it, ass red and sore, presented for inspection and appreciation. This is perfection.

It’s a sudden stroke of genius that inspires Castiel to grab the ropes trailing from Dean’s wrists and use them to pull Dean’s arms back, dropping him to his chest on the mattress. He pins Dean’s hands to the small of his back and uses one hand to hold them there, letting the other fall to Dean’s hip so he can dig his fingers in and pull Dean back. He can get so much deeper this way, can fuck Dean so much harder. Instantly, Castiel knows he’s made the right choice.

“Oh, fuck, Cas, yes, fuck, just like that, harder baby, harder, fuck fuck _fuck!_ ” Dean cries. His ass clenches around Castiel’s cock, his hands flex around nothing, and Cas keeps fucking. He pounds into Dean, lets his hips slap against the reddened flesh of Dean’s ass, and he loves every second of it. Dean’s litany remains almost constant, just incoherent babbling and begging and profanity without end. When Dean begs him to go harder, Cas goes harder. When Dean whines his name, Cas growls right back at him. When Dean whimpers and sobs in pleasure, Cas knows he’s hit that sweet spot, and he does it over and over and over again.

And then he remembers the remote.

There’s one more setting on the cock ring. One more level of torturous pleasure he can subject Dean to. Castiel casts his eyes around on the bed until they lock onto the remote, and he’s reaching for it almost instantly, grabbing the thing and stabbing at the button to kick the vibrations up as high as they’ll go. Dean’s noises decay into one long endless keening moan, but Cas doesn’t let up, just keeps fucking him hard and fast. The hand that isn’t holding Dean’s bonds slides over his hip to take hold of his cock, jerking it in time with the thrusts, and there’s nothing Dean could do to resist that assault, even if he wanted to. It only takes a few short moments before he’s coming again, spilling white over Castiel’s fingers and practically screaming with pleasure.

Castiel fucks him through the orgasm, and through the aftershocks, and still he doesn’t let up. He rides Dean hard, wringing out everything he has to offer, and when he finally comes it’s with Dean’s name on his lips, spoken with all the reverence he can muster. His voice is harsh and gravelly and nearly guttural in the throes of passion, but Dean’s name is still a thing of beauty on his tongue, and it always will be.  

Dean sags nearly boneless against the ropes by the time Castiel finally draws free and lowers him to the mattress. The cock ring ceases its buzzing as Cas fiddles with the remote. Dean sighs heavily, relieved, when Cas frees his cock of its confines. He cradles Dean carefully, mindful of how fragile he might be in moments like this, and leaves his side only long enough to grab a wash cloth to spirit away the come clinging to his skin, flicking off the light switch as he returns. Dean flinches away from the cold touch, but he settles back down almost immediately, curling into Castiel’s side. He’s drifting and dreamlike already, totally fucked out and completely beyond conversation, but Castiel doesn’t mind. There will be plenty of time for talking in the morning, and there will be plenty of mornings to follow that one, too. Soon he’ll be drifting off to sleep, and it’s hard to deny how much he needs it. The past twenty-four hours have been intense. They both need a good night’s sleep.

~*~

It ends up being more of a nap than anything else. By Castiel’s estimation, though he didn’t actually note the time when they started drifting off, it’s been only two, maybe three hours since their marathon session of physical reconnection came to its inevitable end. Still, Castiel will be the first to concede that he put Dean through enough of a workout that the rest was needed, and definitely earned. As soon as Castiel rolls to his side though, intent on sneaking off to the bathroom and perhaps to raid the fridge for something cold to drink, Dean stirs. It’s been months since they spent a night in the same bed but Dean’s still so attuned to his presence that even in sleep the slightest of movements does not go unnoticed.

“Where you goin’?” Dean mutters groggily. A possessive arm tightens around Castiel’s waist.

“Nowhere important,” Cas replies, snuggling back in. “How’re you feeling?”

“Awesome,” Dean affirms. “Sleepy. Glad you’re here.” Cas smiles in the dark, struggling to roll back to face Dean with the vice grip of arms tight around his waist. Somehow he manages, bringing them face to face. Dean immediately plants a kiss on his lips, totally heedless of dragon breath on either side.

“Me too,” he answers earnestly. There’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be, except perhaps back on St. John with the roar of the ocean outside the window and the sun-kissed sand of the beaches waiting for them not to make use of. Perhaps they’ll go back there some day, revisit the place where it all started. Things seemed so easy when there were no real world pressures to distract them and all they had to do was learn each other’s bodies. Castiel could use a few days of that. Dean probably could too.

“Dean, I…” Castiel starts, unsure how much he really wants to say. “I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I never meant to hurt you, not in the slightest, and it kills me to think what it must have been like, believing that I was so cruel. Can you ever forgive me?”

“I can,” Dean promises. “I mean, I’m still choked that you didn’t ever think that this might be something you should talk over with me first, but of course I want you to come live out here. I’m still mad. I’m gonna be mad for a while. But knowing what I know now? Knowing what you were willing to do to be with me? That’s gonna help.”

They’re both quiet for a few minutes, snuggled together with legs intertwined, just letting themselves be lulled by the twin sounds of their breathing, their hearts beating in the night. A heavy exhale from Dean’s lips rustles the hair draped across Castiel’s forehead.

“So what now?” Dean inquires softly.

“Well, other than my house, there is officially nothing tying me to New York any longer. So that gets listed, I pack, decide what comes with me and what to sell, and I move. There’s the matter of finding a place out here of course, and I’ll need to hire a moving company and figure out if I’m going to drive my car out or have it brought out by the movers. And there’s some details to be worked out with the university here but for the most part that’s settled.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Dean demands, his arms tightening around Cas’s waist.

“What?” Cas inquires, confused.

“Find a place out here? You even want to bother? You know we’re just going to spend every night together anyway. If you think I’m gonna let you move halfway across the country to be with me and then let you out of my sight, you’re a crazy person.”

“Well I didn’t want to assume…” Cas answers sheepishly.

“You’re not assuming. I’m inviting you. Come live here. Pack your shit. Whatever you bring with you, we’ll find room for. You belong here with me.”

“Are you sure?” Cas presses. He wants this, more than anything. He’d love to sleep next to Dean like this every night for the rest of his life. But moving in together is a huge step. They’ve been through so much, and the idea that Dean might feel obligated to do this because of how things almost fell apart is enough to insert a great deal of doubt into Castiel’s thoughts.

“Absolutely sure,” Dean tells him. “We’ve already said goodbye too many times, and it’s always because one or both of us is going home. I don’t want that anymore. I want going home to mean I’m going wherever you are.”

“Okay,” Castiel replies softly, a sleepy grin creeping onto his lips. “Okay. That’s what we’ll do.”

And there’s probably a lot more to be said. There are more apologies to be made. There are explanations to be offered. There are details and timelines and mountains of minutiae to be reasoned out, but none of that matters right now. Now, they sleep. In the morning, there will be kisses and coffee, there will be breakfast and probably more sex. They’ll find a rhythm until Castiel absolutely has to fly back to Ithaca, but when they say goodbye this time around, it won’t just be until next time. It’ll be the last time. And when Castiel leaves Ithaca again, when he heads towards Dean with his heart full of love and his mind wrapped around the excitement, he won’t just be coming to visit.

He’ll be coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Bondage, spanking


	26. Epilogue: May 12, 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you gotta go back to where it all started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings at the end

**_Dean_ **

“You know,” Cas grumbles, climbing to his feet after rolling his dress pants another couple inches up his ankles, “I’m going to be digging sand out from under my toenails for the next ten years or so.”

“Never let it be said,” Dean responds solemnly, recapturing Cas’s hand and tugging him back into step, “that the spark has gone out.  Never let it be said that Castiel Novak is not a hopeless romantic.”

“As I recall,” Cas says, scowling playfully at him, “I said some extremely sentimental things to you only a few hours ago in front of all of our nearest and dearest, so don’t start with that.  I just really hate—“

“—the beach.  I know, babe.  I heard you the last sixteen times.  Also the 7000 before that.  You do recall that _you’re_ the one who insisted we get married barefoot in the sand on St. John, right?”

“Shut up, it’s romantic,” Cas gripes.  “And don’t try to pretend you didn’t love the idea of getting married on the same beach where we met.”

“I would never say such a thing,” Dean assures him, lips twitching violently as he twines their fingers together a little more tightly, pulling Cas down the sand, “especially since the date was my idea.”

“‘I, Dean Winchester, take thee, Castiel Novak,’” Cas quotes, and it could be mockery but the naked emotion in his eyes as they lock with Dean’s makes it clear that it’s anything but, “‘to be my husband.’”  Cas pauses his steps, still at least fifty yards from the water, waiting until Dean turns to face him before going on. “‘Three years ago today was the first time we ever said goodbye to each other, and we thought it would be forever.  I count myself lucky every day that wasn’t the case.  We’ve gotten really good at saying goodbye—we’ve had to—but that’s a skill I never plan on needing again.  Now, instead of just being the anniversary of the day we first said goodbye, today can be the anniversary of the day we knew we’d never need to say it again.’”

“You memorized my vows?” Dean says, his voice a little strangled as he speaks past the sudden lump in his throat.  His eyes graze over the man in front of him—his husband—taking in the perpetually messy hair (which completely refused to be tamed, even by a professional hairdresser and a truly ridiculous amount of gel), the light blue vest covering a no-longer-crisp white shirt, cufflinks removed and sleeves rolled carelessly up. Both of their jackets lie discarded somewhere in the reception hall.  Jess has probably already hunted them down, in between chasing fourteen-month-old Mary around (considering that she’s only been walking for six weeks, the kid is remarkably fast, and has an almost uncanny ability to aim straight at the most hazardous thing within a hundred-yard radius). Cas’s blue gaze is intense and affixed steadily on Dean’s.  Even now, more than three years since they first laid eyes on one another, just the sight of Cas still takes Dean’s breath away.

“Of course, I did,” Cas says, lifting one hand to graze fingertips lightly down the curve of Dean’s clean-shaven (no stubble, even, because wedding photos) jaw.  “Those were very important words.”

“And you’re a freakishly smart hopeless romantic with an almost creepy ability to recall exact phrasing, so this probably shouldn’t surprise me,” Dean quips, but his hand has come up to press Cas’s palm more closely against his own cheek, so maybe Cas isn’t the only hopeless romantic around here.

“Says the man who can quote _Die Hard_ verbatim, start-to-finish.”

“…it’s a classic!”

“So you’ve told me the last forty-three times you made me watch it with you,” Cas notes dryly, taking Dean’s hand back before he turns toward the water once more, starting to walk again.  Dean falls easily into step beside him, stifling a grin.

“Whatever, after the deal we made, I’m pretty sure you’re the one who suggested we watch it the last three or four times.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cas tells him primly.

It had been Dean’s idea, actually.  After a year and a half of cohabitation, Cas was heard to opine that he would rather drive rusty nails through his own eyeballs than be forced to watch _Die Hard_ yet again, and since Dean had no intention of giving up either his fiancé (at the time) or his favorite movie, he’d needed to figure something out quickly.   Knowing Cas as he did, it wasn’t difficult to come up with sufficient motivation.  The deal is simple; _Die Hard_ is 132 minutes from start to finish, so anytime Cas has to watch it, in return he gets 132 minutes of carte blanche to do whatever he wants with Dean.  Unsurprisingly, what he wants is generally his favorite toy; Dean’s ass. 

Cas was only too willing to make the deal, knowing as he did that Dean’s obsession with the movie was unlikely to suddenly evaporate after a solid thirty years, and the arrangement seems to be working out well for both of them.  Dean gets to enjoy his favorite movie in the company of the man he loves, and Cas gets to take it out of his ass afterward (or, on one memorable occasion, beforehand—and he’d certainly seemed to enjoy how much squirming Dean did during the movie).

“Of course you don’t,” Dean snorts, “so we’re just gonna pretend that the special edition Blu-ray you gave me as a wedding gift doesn’t exist, are we?”

“That was simply me looking out for you,” Cas tells him gravely, but his eyes are twinkling irrepressibly, “after all, the DVD is nigh unwatchable at this point.”

“We own it on iTunes, babe.  You bought that Blu-ray specifically because the honeymoon cabin has a Blu-ray player but no internet access.  I may not have a doctorate, but I can connect the dots.”

“Mmmm, so can I,” Cas says, neatly extracting his hand from Dean’s, stepping behind him, and nuzzling the tip of his nose against the back of Dean’s neck, “and I plan on doing exactly that later.”

“You have an unhealthy obsession with my freckles,” Dean informs him, unable to conceal the shudder that skates down his spine at the feel of his husband’s (his _husband!_  How cool is that?) hot breath against the back of his neck, “and you’re not going to distract me.  I’ll get you to admit that you’ve gotten on board with _Die Hard_ if it’s the last thing I do.”

“My feelings about the movie itself have not changed,” Cas tells him archly, “I’m simply skilled at cost/benefit analyses, and sometimes the payoff is worth the pain.  Look, we’re here.”

“This is it?” Dean asks, pausing to take a long look around the beach.

“Definitely,” Cas tells him.  “That huge palm tree that the hurricane knocked down was just up the beach from the umbrellas, and look—that’s where the smallest tree is now.”

“I checked yesterday,” Dean tells him, turning to face Cas and sliding his arms around his neck, “our names are still there, but higher than they were last year.  It’s grown.  And your heart still looks wonky.”

“I’m not a woodcarver,” Cas complains, “I did the best I could.  Do you think we should edit it given the name adjustment?”

“Nah, leave it as it is.  We were Winchester and Novak at the time.”

“But not anymore.”  Cas brushes his lips against Dean’s, feather-light. 

“No, not anymore.  Speaking of which,” Dean says, leaning in to steal a more substantial kiss, “there’s something we need to do.”

“Other than get back to the reception before my mother starts looking for us?”

“I still can’t believe she’s here,” Dean marvels, shaking his head.  Probably Jess had more to do with that than either Dean or Cas.  It had really been more out of a sense of obligation than any expectation of a ‘yes’ that Cas had invited his parents to come out to Sioux Falls for a visit and to meet Dean shortly after they got engaged a year ago.  The fact that they’d accepted the invitation had left both Dean and Cas scrambling for what the hell to do with them.  In the end, Jess had swooped in, charming both of Cas’s parents so thoroughly that they forgot to loudly disapprove of their son’s relationship.  They weren’t ever gonna be going to pride parades, but they’d both showed up to the wedding and Dean was pretty damn sure he’d even seen Naomi accepting a tissue with which to wipe her eyes from Anna during the ceremony.  It was a hell of a lot better than he’d expected, and he was incredibly grateful that they’d been able to give that much.  It meant so much to Cas.

“Your sister-in-law is a wonder,” Cas agrees, “although I suspect Gabriel may have had something to do with it as well.  Whether he threatened or bribed, I don’t really want to know.”

“Me either,” Dean snorts, “speaking of whom, is he still hitting on Charlie?”

“Pretty sure,” Cas confirms, “I can ask him to lay off again, but you know what Gabe is like when—“

“Oh, no way,” Dean says, shaking his head vigorously, “she can handle herself, and I want to see his face when he annoys her too much and ends up with his entire internet search history posted online for all to see.”

Cas groans.  “Are you _trying_ to get my best man arrested? Or fired?”

“Nope,” Dean snickers, “he’ll manage that all on his own.  I told him Charlie didn’t swing that way _and_ has a girlfriend.  Anything that happens from that point forward is on him.”

“You may have a point,” Cas concedes.  “What did I do wrong, that you get Sam and I got stuck with Gabriel?”

“To be fair, now you’ve got Sam too, and I’m pretty sure I’m also stuck with Gabe.”

“Good news for me, terrible news for you.  Wasn’t there something you wanted to do?”

“Oh, yeah!  Stop distracting me,” Dean scolds, just before being thoroughly distracted as Cas’s lips crash hard into his own.  A few heady minutes later, Cas breaks the kiss (hell, as long as he was already distracted, Dean’d had no plans of rushing things), leaving Dean goggling at him.  It’s been three years and five days since the first time he managed it, and somehow Cas can still leave Dean speechless and reeling with a single kiss. 

“No,” Cas tells him, smiling wickedly, “I don’t think I will, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I, uh…” That’s about the best Dean can muster, and that’s after three long years of trying to figure out how to break the spell Cas casts with those kisses.  It’s still better than the days when he couldn’t manage even spluttering, at least.

“That’s what I thought,” Cas says, then turns Dean toward the water before delivering a very solid smack to the meatiest part of his ass.  “Now, do whatever you came here to do.  I’ve got plans, and I can’t very well put them into action without you.”

“Impatient,” Dean grumbles, finally managing to reconnect with the English language and ostentatiously rubbing his ass.  He knows Cas gets a kick out of the show.

“Oh, don’t be melodramatic.  I scarcely tapped you—but I’m certain I can _give_ you something to complain about.”

“I’m certain you _will,”_ Dean shoots back, “regardless of whether I complain or not.”

“You’ve got me there,” Cas concedes, “and you love it anyway.”

“You’ve got me there,” Dean echoes, grinning over his shoulder as he treads carefully down to the smoothest part of the sand, near the water but far enough back that it won’t be disturbed till the tide comes back in.  His feet are as bare as Cas’s, their dress shoes (which they had to put back _on_ for the reception, since the ceremony was conducted barefoot on the beach) discarded somewhere in the general vicinity of their jackets before they came out here.  Bare toes make it easy for Dean to go to work in the sand, constructing three familiar letters.  After a moment, Cas comes up behind Dean, squinting down at the sand, dimly illuminated by the lights of the hotel behind them.  He chuckles when he realizes what he’s looking at, the letters ‘C,’ ‘A,’ and ‘S’ scrawled in capital letters across the sand.

“Sentimental,” he chides Dean, but his voice is laced with affection, and a moment later his bare toes are going to work as well, despite how he feels about sand under his toenails. 

“Shamelessly,” Dean agrees, waiting until Cas has completed the ‘N’ of Dean’s name before darting in to add a small plus sign between their names, then stepping back to look at them, smiling slightly.

“We did this—“

“—that night, yeah,” Dean finishes, chuckling.  “I tried to add a second ‘s’ to your name.  You didn’t approve.”

“And now you know better,” Cas says, sliding an arm around Dean’s waist and pulling him in for a squeeze. 

“And now I know better.  No extra ‘s,’ but I’ve got something better to add anyway.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms.  “Observe.”  He drops a quick kiss on Cas’s smooth cheek before breaking away, heading for the sand just below their names and going to work.  He steps back after finishing, gazing in satisfaction down at the complete picture.

CAS + DEAN  
NOVAK

Cas reaches for his hand, squeezing it tightly before yanking Dean in for another searing kiss.  “You know,” he says, “I would’ve been more than happy to take your last name.  I still am.  We haven’t filed the paperwork yet.”

“We’ve been over this,” Dean says, a little breathlessly.  This wasn’t one of _those_ kisses, thankfully, but even the non-turbo-charged ones are pretty damn intense.  “I don’t have a book, multiple publications, and an academic reputation under my name.  I’m perfectly happy to be a Novak.  The little nugget Jess is currently incubating is gonna be able to carry on the Winchester name just fine,” the ultrasound last week confirmed that Sam and Jess’s second child is a boy, “and I figure the odds that Gabriel reproduces are reasonably low if there’s a God, so it makes sense for our house to harbor little Novaks anyway when the time comes.  Now draw one of your wonky hearts and we can head back to the reception.”

“Wonky,” Cas mutters mutinously, “my hearts aren’t wonky.  I’ll show you wonky.”  Dean has to bite his lip to keep his laughter in check as Cas sets to work with great focus, surrounding their names in a heart.  When he’s finished, he steps back, shooting a triumphant gaze to Dean.  “See?  Not wonky at a—“ He cuts off in mid-word as he turns to get a good look at the decidedly wonky finished product.  “well, shit.  It is a little wonky, isn’t it?”

“I find it charming,” Dean informs him, sliding an arm around Cas’s waist and tugging him in to press a kiss against his temple.

“Well, fuck it, then.  That’s what matters.”

“You know,” Dean says, as their hands twine together once more, “I sort of wonder whatever happened to that umbrella.”

“I imagine, as one of the casualties of the hurricane, it was probably thrown out along with the rest of the debris.”

“Shame,” Dean muses, “it was a hell of a matchmaker.”

“To be fair,” Cas observes, “the umbrella certainly started the thing, but the shed sealed the deal.  What if there hadn’t been a perfect secluded little spot to tuck ourselves away?  Staggering back into the lobby and splitting off to our separate rooms wouldn’t have been nearly as romantic.”

“If me fucking you into the concrete floor sans lube is your idea of romance, it’s probably just as well you left most of the wedding planning to me and Jess,” Dean deadpans.

“I prefer fucking you into the mattress, and I’m fairly certain you’ve never complained about my brand of romance,” Cas shoots back.

“You may have a point.  Hey, do you think they’ve put a lock on the shed?” Dean inquires, pointing his free hand at the small structure in question.

Cas frowns thoughtfully.  “I doubt it.  If they didn’t have one then, why would they now?”

“Possibly because of the mess we left of the place?” Dean smirks, remembering the shambles he left the room in after discovering the note from Cas in his palm.

“I suspect that in the wake of the hurricane that was the least of their worries, but if you’re really curious, I suppose we could check.”

“We really should, you know.  For science.”

“Dean, for the thousandth time, you cannot convince me to do something hare-brained just by telling me it’s for science.”

“You keep saying that, but you’ve never actually said _no_ to any of my, uh, experiments.”

“Completely beside the point.  Now why are you so focused on—oh.  Really?”

“I mean.  Can _you_ think of any better place to consummate our marriage?”

“There is a certain poetry to the idea.  Except—shit.  Yet again, up a creek without lube.”

“Have you no faith in me?”

“Were you _planning_ this, Dean Wi—Novak?”

“Good save.  And I have no idea what you’re talking about.  I just like to be prepared.  My husband was a boy scout.”

“Oh he was, was he?”

“That’s what he tells me.  Seemed like a good idea to be prepared tonight.  See, the night I met him, I had stashed a condom in my wallet.  Wasn’t sure I’d have the chance to use it, and I definitely didn’t think I’d be the lucky sonofabitch who got to use it with _him,_ but I thought maybe I’d get lucky again tonight.”

“That depends upon your definition of lucky, I suppose.”

“Oh it does, does it?” Dean asks, echoing Cas’s earlier phrasing.

“If you think getting bent over the counter and fucked more bow-legged than you already are by your husband is getting lucky, I’d say the odds of you getting lucky are exceedingly high.”

“Damn, dude,” Dean says, adjusting himself a little in his pants, “no slow and sweet love-making for our wedding night?”

“Oh, there will be plenty of that, too,” Cas promises, lips quirking up a little bit, “but that’s for later, on that enormous, rose-petal covered bed in that enormous suite.”

“And for now?”

“For now, I suggest you get that lovely ass moving, Mr. Novak.  You know where we’re going.”  Cas punctuates this with another very solid smack to Dean’s ass, sending him stumbling a step or two forward.  He has no intention of arguing—after all, this is what he was angling for—but he does take a moment to glance over his shoulder at Cas, casting him a saucy grin.

“So I do.  Now come and get me, Mr. Novak.”

~*~

Many hours later, they are lying half-asleep on the enormous bed, rose petals crushed beneath their intertwined limbs.  Dean’s head rests on Cas’s shoulder, and he rumbles a low protest as Cas shifts, leaning slightly over the side of the bed, reaching down to grab something.

A moment later, his protests are silenced as Cas’s hand reappears, bearing a single rose which he slips into Dean’s hand.  His voice, fuzzy with sleep and sex, is so laced with affection that it’s almost painful.

“Bee mine?”

Dean tells the truth.  “I always have been.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Specific Warnings:** Bottom!Dean 
> 
> ~*~
> 
> And there you have it!
> 
> If we’ve done our jobs well, hopefully you enjoyed your time playing in our little (or long-winded, as the case may be) sandbox. We hope somewhere over the past 25 (plus epilogue) chapters, we’ve made you laugh, made you cry, made you squee. We hope that we’ve tugged on your heartstrings and tickled your funnybone and possibly even made you crawl into your bunk. Maybe most of all, we hope that you were able to lose yourself for a little while in the world we’ve created.
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> 
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> 
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